


Let Me Get That For You

by tanukiham



Series: Let Me Get That For You [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Happily Ever After, M/M, Post Game, Threesome - M/M/M, sex between consenting adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen never knew his walls were so thin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/gifts).



> This was supposed to be straight up PWP.
> 
> Instead, be satisfied with the knowledge that this time I am PROMISING you a happy ending.

It happens on a cold, clear morning, one of the few truly crisp mornings of the year in Kirkwall. (After this the days will be wretchedly cold, even through plate-and-mail and all its necessary encumberances.) There has been a dispute between what is left of the merchant guild and the ever-swelling Coterie, and Cullen is sick to death of it. It is not his place to manage the problems of the city. It is not appropriate. 

And yet, someone must step in, because if the merchant guild pulls support from the markets prices will go through the roof. There are too many starving in Darktown as it is. Without Chantry funding, the Gallows is in danger of foundering also. If not for the contributions of a few pious citizens, Lady Harimann and the Comte de Launcet in particular, they would be already ruined rather than, as now, merely on the brink of it. 

So, he is contemplating whether or not to simply raid Darktown and wipe the Coterie off the map when the knock comes, swiftly followed by the door opening. "Ser." 

"Agatha?" 

"Hunters, ser. They’ve a half-dozen apostates with them, this time." 

Cullen is out of his chair and reaching for his sword before he realises he is in motion. "And their condition?" 

She knows he does not mean the Hunters. "Good, ser." She shrugs, stepping back to hold the door open for him."Tired and in need of a bath, according to Ellis, but not, you know, foxed." She shouldn’t sound surprised. Apostates should be _hale_ when they are brought in. That they are often not is a _crime_. 

But this time-- "How many Hunters?" he asks as she follows him out of the room. 

"Two, Ellis said." 

"Only _two_? And you said half-a-dozen mages?" The ratio is wrong, surely. 

"They’re mostly children, ser." 

But still. 

"See that there are beds enough in the apprentice dormitory, and segregated quarters for any that are old enough to be assessed for Harrowing. See that everyone is fed and given access to the baths. And Healed, where necessary," he adds, but she’s already nodding. 

"All ordered, ser. What’s to be done with the Hunters, though?" 

It’s always tricky with Mage Hunters. They’re not Seekers but some of them, especially the senior Hunters, act as though they are and Cullen finds it awkward to disabuse them of this notion. Especially when they bring in apostates. He does not want them to be discouraged from delivering their charges to the Gallows. He does not want them to decide it is easier to simply do away with their encumberances in the field, as it were. 

Still. If they try to pull rank they have no right to he cannot let it stand. "Have quarters prepared for them amongst the rank and file. Split them up if possible. No special treatment." 

She nods and peels away, and he thanks the Maker again for her loyalty and competence. Since the loss of the Chantry, to find both qualities in one person, one of his _own_ , has been rare. 

But he has apostates to deal with and the Coterie problem and no time to dwell, so he makes his way down to the courtyard and this, at least, is something he has been trained for. 

Ellis reported accurately enough, which is always pleasing. There are six figures in a knot together; one adult, the others ranging from early to late adolescence. They stand at the centre of a ring of wary junior knights accompanied by Knight-Corporal Stesha, and a few senior knights who seem to have nothing better to do than gawk at the newcomers. 

_That will be enough of_ that. 

"Knight-Corporal, see that these mages are looked over by a Healer. Knight-Lieutenant Agatha is arranging accommodation and other necessities; you will answer directly to her in this matter. The rest of you are dismissed," and he does not even have to try to put an edge on that anymore, it comes of itself. "Unless you have need to report to the duty Lieutenant for further--" 

But he stops, because one of the Hunters has stepped out from the wall, and there is something in the way the knight moves that steals the words from Cullen’s throat. "Ser," he says, tinny and dull behind all that steel, and then he reaches for his helmet "Ser!" 

" _Hawke?_ " Oh, merciful Andraste. 

"Knight-Captain!" He pulls up sharp, tucking his helmet into the crook of one arm. "Uh … Commander, I mean. Ser." 

It takes Cullen a moment and then-- "Ah. Yes. And," because that Hunter armour still bears standard marks of rank, "Lieutenant, I see." 

"Yeah," and he grins, stretching the dark scars that cut across his cheek. " _That_ happened." 

_How did_ this _happen?_ Cullen wants to ask, because the last time he saw Carver Hawke it had been to order him to Orlais rather than die in the chaos of Meredith’s Rite of Annulment, and … well. He had gone. There had been no word of him after that. Cullen had told himself that he saved the man’s life but there was no _word_ , and when he sent to Val Royeaux for news all he received were vague and contradictory instructions, nothing _useful_. 

And now here he is, alive, in the armor of a Mage Hunter Lieutenant. 

Cullen can't decide whether to hug him or order him locked in the dungeons just _because_. 

Some of that must show; Carver’s smile wavers. "Uh … Ser? The apostates are all right, all good, ser. The older one, Jermaeus, he’d found the kids and tried, you know, looking after them. But when we showed up he came easy enough. So. You’ll treat them right, ser." 

It is in no way a question, and Cullen is caught by the sincerity in Carver’s gaze. This is not a question because it is in no way in doubt, because Carver believes it to be true. 

Cullen has always been weak in the face of Carver's unwavering belief that Cullen is a good man. No, the best of men. And Cullen cannot disappoint him. Not even now, while _furious_. 

"Of course. I will have them examined for signs of blood magic--" 

"You don't need to do that, ser. I've checked them out. Nothing to worry about." 

When did Carver learn to lie? No, not quite a lie -- Cullen is certain that every word of it is true enough -- but a subterfuge, nevertheless. At least one them bears some sign of blood magic, then. Or perhaps Carver simply does not want an innocent scar mistaken for something worse. It is _possible_. 

"... as you say, Hunter-Lieutenant." 

It is meant as a rebuke, and he sees Carver hear it as one, blinking and taking a step back and, oh, he looks _hurt_. But then he steels himself, nods and says, "Knight-Commander." 

One of the senior recruits is hovering at Cullen’s elbow, clearly not eager to interrupt. But she finds her courage. "Ser Agatha wanted the Hunters shown to their quarters, ser." 

Which is when he realises that he cannot send Carver to the Knights Quarters. He is a _Lieutenant_. It would be an insult, and … and Cullen does not want to. The officers quarters will not suffice; all rooms equal to a Lieutenant are currently occupied by Knights Lieutenant, and the quarters of a Knight-Corporal are barely better than those of a plain knight. There are Cullen's old rooms, of course, but if it is an insult to Carver to be lodged anywhere less than a Knight-Lieutenant, it would be an insult to the Knights Lieutenant should a Hunter be lodged somewhere more grand. 

And he might be angry with Carver, but he is also glad to see him. 

It becomes obvious. "The Hunter-Lieutenant will be staying in the guest room of my suite," he says decisively -- it is important, he has learned, to sound decisive. Even if sometimes it leads to hasty decisions. He turns to Carver. "There are two of you, is that correct? Where is your fellow?" The other can go in with the men. 

"Oh, I’m the only _Templar_ ," Carver says, glancing over his shoulder and grinning. "Fenris just likes wearing my cloak." 

Cullen’s heart sinks. He had not realised it had lifted, until now. 

"You remember Fenris, ser?" 

Cullen swallows. "Yes, of course." How could he forget? 

The elf, who has bundled himself in a red Hunter cloak emblazoned with a white Sword of Mercy, lopes across the courtyard to join them, though he only glances at Cullen before tucking himself in behind Carver and glaring warily at anyone who dares come near them. 

"Greetings in the Light of the Maker, serrah Fenris. You are welcome here." It is the smallest of lies. 

"Really?" Carver sounds surprised. "I mean … we were going to stay at the Hanged Man. Or, you know, the Rose. I figured … I mean _I’m_ still a Templar, but Fenris isn’t, you know, officially anything." 

It is a way out, of sorts. But Cullen has _said_ , and he refuses to back down. "I will not have a Lieutenant of the Order lodging in the Blooming Rose. You will _both_ stay with me, though … I have only the one guest room. If I recall correctly, however, that will not be a problem." 

That too is an out, but Carver grins, and the look he flashes his companion is unmistakable and makes Cullen want to shrivel into dust. "Not a bit, ser." 

"Very well." Cullen cannot bear the pressure in his chest any longer. He must get away, but he must not show it. "Recruit--" it takes him a moment, "--Lorena. Inform Knight-Lieutenant Agatha that Hunter-Lieutenant Carver and his guest, Serrah Fenris, will be lodging with me. Ser Carver, you are acquainted with the Gallows. I trust I can leave Serrah Fenris in your hands? I regret that there is a matter I must attend with some urgency, but I will dine with you tonight." 

"Of course, ser," Carver says, and he looks shocked. Cullen turns to go, but-- "Ser?" He forces himself to turn back and yes, that is shock, and perhaps disappointment. What did he expect? Praise? 

For bringing in six apostates, unharmed. By himself. 

Yes. He has every right to it. 

Cullen opens his mouth to tell him he has done well, but Carver beats him to it. "Good to see you, ser. I thought … that I might never, again." He takes a deep breath, crosses his wrists over his chest, Fereldan-fashion, and bows over them. 

Cullen is acutely aware of a pair of green eyes glaring at him past Carver’s shoulder, and it is unfair. "It is good to see you also, Hawke. I am glad you’ve come home." 

And, before Carver can tell him that this is not home, Cullen nods, leaves the courtyard, and walks briskly to his office. He closes the door, leans back on it, covers his mouth with one hand and, oh-- 

_I thought you were dead. You … Maker preserve you, I lit_ candles _for you, you irresponsible, reckless, heartless … how dare you show up here, two years without word, and not … not_ warn _me that you … and_ he _… oh, Andraste’s mercy, how_ could _you?_

_After all that we …_

But, in honesty, it had never been much. Most of it daydreams, a few glances Cullen had not been able to write off as his febrile imagination. Confidences shared over a glass of wine. Jokes meant only for they two. One long evening spent in his sitting room, barely touching, talking very quietly of what kind of future there could be for a man who might, just _might_ raise a mutiny against his commander. Should it come to that. 

_"I’d have your back, ser."_ He will never forget how the firelight caught in those eyes. _"I’m your man. Always."_

And then, one kiss, just the one, and no-one had ever kissed Cullen like that before, like they were trying to pour themselves into his mouth, like they needed to be inside his _skin_. It had been thrilling and frightening and, oh, how he’d _wanted_ , but, _oh_ , how he had feared to ruin everything. Carver’s career. His own. This beautiful _thing_ they had grown between them. The future of the Gallows. 

But, in honesty, it was fear of failure. Fear of Carver. Fear of disappointment, and not just his own. 

_Why did I push him away? If I had only the courage, then ..._

‘If only’ solves nothing. He knows this. ‘If only’ so many things. 

_But his face when I did it …_

And then the Chantry was destroyed, and Meredith tried to take the Gallows down with it, and Cullen sent Carver away and … now they are here. And so is Fenris. 

When the shaking stops, Cullen takes deep breaths to calm himself. His eyes are dry at least. _Imagine the Knight Commander of the Gallows_ weeping _over the loss of a lover never had. Over one of his own knights. How pathetic they would think me._

Well, he will not be pathetic. Carver will not stay long. Hunters never do. And when he is gone, Cullen will forget all of this. He tells himself this time it will be easy, but … when has it ever? 

* * *

There is salmon and rice for dinner, and while Fenris says nothing about the fish Carver cheerfully makes mock of him, and then sets about redistributing the contents of their plates so that Fenris’ is mostly rice and Carver’s is mostly fish. Fenris simply glares at him, and his plate, and then, when Carver is done fussing about it, clears his throat. 

"I thank you for your hospitality. I appreciate that guests are not common in your Gallows." 

It is not strictly true. "We have hosted Grey Wardens and Chevaliers, ships captains and artisans. Though usually in the mage quarters, if they have the stomach for it. You are not unwelcome, unless--" and Cullen has a thought. "I trust that my knights have given you no reason to feel so." 

"No. They have not." 

"Like I’d _let_ them." Carver smirks sidelong at his companion. "Like you’d put up with it, anyway." 

"I am a guest in another’s house," Fenris says in that deep, serious voice Cullen still cannot quite credit comes out of an _elf_. "My first responsibility is to be no inconvenience to my host." And he looks up, meeting Cullen’s eye quite steadily. 

Maker. Does he know? Cullen feels his face heat, suddenly ashamed. How can he have guessed? Or … Andraste’s mercy, could _Carver_ have told him? Lovers share so much -- details of past lovers, or not-even-lovers-at-all would be … yes, he can see it. Carver telling Fenris about his stodgy old Captain, wound up tight with lust and too cowardly to act on it. Would Carver have laughed? Would _Fenris_ have laughed? 

Are they laughing at him now? 

Fenris blinks and Cullen realises that Carver has voiced a question. "I beg your pardon?" 

"I said, do you think there’ll be any problem with the mages? Jermaeus was Gallows-raised, ser, and he … well, he didn’t like it much here. So, you know, when everything went to shit he ran. I don’t blame him. Honest, ser, things got pretty bad at the end." 

Carver frowns down at his plate. ‘Pretty bad’ is an understatement and they both know it. Fenris says nothing, but he touches Carver’s arm very lightly. So. They all know how bad things were. At the end. 

Cullen clears his throat, unable to bear the tenderness in that touch or in the grateful look Carver tosses Fenris’ way. "I am impressed you managed to convince him to come with you, given all he may have endured here." 

Carver shrugs. "It was the kids, really. He just wants the best for them, and it’s rough out there. Some of them … Mika and Tarla are from Tantervale, and they skipped out when the Circle was attacked by Mage haters. They didn’t know anything _but_ the Circle, so they were in a bad way when Jem found them. Oren’s a Tevinter runaway. Don’t hold it against him, ser, he’s a good kid. Right, Fenris?" 

There’s more to it than it appears, from the pleading look on Carver’s face and the stony expression on Fenris’. Eventually, though-- "The Imperium would have eaten him alive," Fenris admits, and it is grudging, but Carver relaxes so obviously that it is clear that this is not the first time they have spoken of it. "He will do better in the Circle." 

"Dilly and Aelric are pure apostate, though. Jem found Dilly in a slave camp. Had to buy her. He spent all his coin on that, but I don’t think he regrets anything. Except … well, she wasn’t the only mage they had. Just the only mage he could afford." He sighs, shakes his head. "And Aelric found _him_. Thought Jem was recruiting for the Underground, so, you know. Thought he was joining the mage resistance. I think Jem talked him ‘round but," and Cullen sees the way that Carver’s hands tighten on his cutlery, "he’s the one you’ve gotta look out for. I might’ve … smited him a bit. Smoted. Whichever. He really didn’t like the look of me." 

He says it with a smile, but his eyes betray him, and even if they had not, the twist of Fenris’ mouth would. 

"And yet you brought them all, unharmed, to the Gallows." It is quite a feat, and Cullen regrets not having said so before. "You have done exceedingly well, Hawke. I am … very proud of you." 

It should make Carver happy, should lift that shadow from his brow. It does not. 

"I lost two of them, ser. One ran, and the other … ten year olds shouldn’t have a demon. They shouldn’t _have_ to, but …" He sniffs, looks up, and whatever he is thinking Cullen knows that it hurts him. "Bradley was from the Gallows, too. He remembered me, but still he … really, _really_ didn’t want to come back." 

Cullen knows what he is supposed to say, that any mage who deals with demons has already consigned himself to a death sentence, but he cannot. It is easy to judge, when one is all wrapped up in the Circle. Meredith always said that the actions of Templars outside its bounds must be held to a different measure. He knows that she meant for them to be accorded more leniency, but in this case, perhaps more compassion. 

"You did the best you could. I am certain of that." 

The grateful look on Carver’s face ought not to affect him so deeply. 

And then Carver grimaces, tilts his head to the side and frowns. "Also, ser. Tarla’s pregnant. She’s trying to hide it but you can’t hide _that_ , not forever." He takes a deep breath, and his eyes when he meets Cullen’s own are like chips of dark blue stone. "I told her you’d let her keep it. She wouldn’t have come, otherwise." 

It takes him a moment to process this. "We would not interfere with a pregnancy, against the mage’s will." Though she is young enough that he would normally have prefered she remain apprenticed for a few years, and an apprentice ought not to be … it has happened, of course, and the recourse of the Circle is always to harrow the mage, because a pregnant apprentice is a disruption. Still, to harrow a pregnant woman seems too cruel. 

But Carver is shaking his head. "I don’t mean _that_. I mean, you’ll let her _keep_ the baby. Right? You won’t take it away." 

Oh. "You know the rules, Hawke. Mages are not permitted to raise their own children." 

"Ser." And now Carver is leaning forward, holding up his hands in a plea that Cullen cannot ignore. "I gave her my _word_." 

"The Chantry--" Cullen says, but Carver makes a disparaging noise. 

"The Chantry’s authority is _gone_. It’s _dust_ now, ser. We can make our own rules. Haven’t you broken with the Grand Cathedral? Haven’t they abandoned us?" 

And it is true. Cullen has wondered himself, in the dark of his rooms, whether the staid rules they live by are now thrust all into question. If the Chantry is in turmoil, if it no longer supports them, then what are they supposed to do? How will the Order function, when the Grand Cathedral and the White Spire are at odds? How will the Gallows function if Cullen cannot make these decisions on his own? 

And how will Cullen persist, if the dictates of his training are at odds with what he believes to be right? 

In which case... "I will see what I can do." 

Again, Carver relaxes, and then he smiles. "I knew you would, ser. I believed in you." 

_And I believed in you_ , Cullen thinks, _yet here you are, in Hunter armour with your lover by your side._

It is unfair. It is not Carver’s fault that he has found a place in himself to be happy. Still, the armour rankles. 

"Tell me, Hawke, how did you end up a Mage Hunter? I would have thought you disinclined." Son and brother to apostates that he is, or was. 

"Ohhh, that's ... a long story. Boring, mostly." 

Cullen gestures at the table, now depleted. "Shall we take this over to the fire? I have some Antivan brandy. You can tell me everything." 

Carver glances at Fenris, who is so quiet and still that he might as well not be in the room. Fenris nods, and then Carver nods. "Alright, ser. Since it’s _Antivan_." 

Cullen and Fenris settle into armchairs near the hearth. There is a third chair, but Carver ignores it, dropping to the floor at Fenris’ feet and leaning up against his knee. It is so comfortable, so natural, and Cullen cannot find it in himself to hate it, only to be envious of the easy way they move around one another. _Made for it._ Yes. For one another. It makes him ache, but he tries to ignore it while Carver tastes his brandy and casts about for a place to start. 

"Well. It was pretty bloody obvious when I landed that any Fereldans called Hawke were going to have a rough time of it in Val Royeaux, so," he shrugs. "I figured I'd be better off not being a Hawke for a while. Just an Amell. And it's technically true," he adds, sounding defensive and frowning up at Cullen over his cup. "I _am_ an Amell." 

Fenris snorts. "Technically." 

" _Any_ way," Carver goes on loudly, and did he just pinch Fenris’ ankle? "I just tried to keep my head down. It wasn't easy getting out of the city, though. They didn't want any of us going _back_ until they ... uh. They asked a lot of questions. A lot. They asked some of them pretty hard, too." Cullen cannot decide which is worse, the awkward way he says it or the tightening of his hand on his cup. 

"They interrogated you." The thought is appalling. 

Carver shrugs, though it is telling, in its way. "It wasn't so bad, for me. I just played dumb -- shut _up_ , Fenris, you made that joke a dozen times already -- and then, uh, Lili pulled some strings and got me shipped off to Antiva City." 

There is something in the way he stumbles over the name, or perhaps it it's the amused twist of Fenris’ mouth, but Cullen cannot help himself. "Lili?" 

"Er ... Leliana. A friend in Val Royeaux." 

Fenris shifts, turning away, but the shape of his jaw is ... not unhappy, something else, and Cullen thinks it strategic to press the point. "A good friend." 

"Pretty good," Carver admits, and his face is flush enough with blood that Cullen knows -- _he bedded her_ \-- and Fenris seems amused enough that Cullen also knows that this, at least, was not important enough for him now to justify feeling quite as concerned as he does. " _Anyway_ , Lili got me a new commission, and _out_ , and then from Antiva it wasn't too hard to get in touch with Zhenya's people -- mercenaries, y’know," and Cullen feels faintly shocked that Carver is on name-terms with mercenaries, before recalling that Carver had _been_ a mercenary once, "so I had a reason to muddle down to Starkhaven and -- well." The brightness of his smile is devastating because it is _not_ turned toward _Cullen_. "I found Fenris, again." 

Cullen has to look away then, away from that shared glance, and it would be selfish to wish that Carver would but once look at _him_ that way, so Cullen does not wish it, tries not to think of it, is wretched in the face of it. 

"And now you are a Mage Hunter," he says, and perhaps some of his bitterness comes through because Carver blinks up at him, eyes wide with surprise. 

"Yes, ser. That's how Lili got me out. That’s the only way to get out of Val Royeaux right now, unless you're a Seeker or, you know, one of _them_." He frowns. "And I’m _not_. I ... ser, I hope you aren't, either." 

Cullen doesn't know what he means by it so Carver launches into a long and complicated explanation of Orlesian Chantry politics that ... to be perfectly frank it is impressive, coming from him. As soon as he thinks it Cullen chides himself; Carver is not _stupid_ , of course, but he has always seemed oblivious to these things. 

There are always factions, Cullen knows, but Carver seems largely concerned with the Loyalists, who are following the lead of the Divine -- he refers to her as ‘Justinia’, which is a small shock beside the other shocks of the day -- and the Separatists who, well, aren't. "Mostly, though, they just want to execute all the mages." 

"And good riddance," Fenris mutters, shifting his feet restlessly. "Would that it were done." 

" _Fen_ ris. We can't just kill all the mages. That's not what Templars are for." 

"Perhaps that is what you should be for." 

They bicker. Carver is passionately in support of protecting mages from 'peasants with pitchforks', while Fenris favours Annulment or Tranquility across the board. It has the taste of an old argument in it, one that may never resolve itself, but their bickering is comfortable enough that Cullen permits himself to relax. 

Until Carver shoves one first hard against the floor, scowling darkly. "Maybe there _will_ be a schism, then. If I can't get _you_ to agree with me, what fucking hope does _Thedas_ have?" 

"No." Cullen does not mean it to sound sharp, but both their heads snap around very suddenly. "Unity is paramount. The Chantry must not be sundered. It cannot be permitted." 

Carver clears his throat. "We have our duty, ser." 

"Our duty, Hawke, is to the Chantry." 

"Yeah ... except I swore my vows to the _Maker_." 

And Cullen remembers two things, clear and bright as day. First, yes, Meredith had ordered the vows altered to remove references to the Chantry, back when she first began to clash with the Grand Cleric. A subtle move, designed to weaken Elthina's position and largely unremarked by the Chantry, but the effect on the recruits knighted after that had been profound. 

Second, he has never known an Amell who was not an idealist. (Later he will tell this to Carver and Carver will laugh and say, "There's always Uncle Gamlen.") 

"Then … do you reject the Chantry?" 

Carver shifts, and Fenris drops a hand onto Carver’s head, running his fingers through all that thick black hair. It looks … soothing, as though he is petting a dog who might bite. Except there is no-one for Carver to bite but Cullen, and Cullen is sure that Carver would never. 

"I believe in the Maker, ser. I believe … I believe in Andraste, and the Chant. But the Chantry?" He looks up, and the firelight catches his eyes and Cullen, Maker help him, _My heart_. "The Chantry’s always changing its mind. But never in a good way, just … making things worse. Like the Canticle of Shartan. What the _fuck_ was wrong with that? Except the Dalish won’t play by Chantry law, so all the elves get written out, Dalish or none. That’s _shit_. I don’t want anything to do with, with that." 

And why would he, with those delicate elven fingers tangled in his hair? 

But. How could Cullen disagree? "The Dissonant Verses are … dissonant. By their nature, they cause dissonance. We cannot sing the Chant to the heavens if we cannot agree on the _words_ ," but Carver has a mulish look to him, and leans forward, gesturing sharply with his glass. 

" ‘Magic is meant to serve man, not to rule over him.’ We base the whole of the Circle on _that_. So, what if it changed? What if they said, ‘Magic is not meant to rule over man; do not suffer the mage to live’? Because that’s what they’re saying in Val Royeaux. Or at least, last I heard." He settles back against Fenris’ knee, and now Fenris is stroking Carver’s shoulder, running his thumb along the muscle as though soothing him and … Carver is angry. And Cullen realises that he has never seen Carver angry. Frustrated, confused, upset, remorseful -- yes. But never _angry_. 

Fenris bends down, whispers something against Carver’s ear and Cullen sees the tension seep out of him. 

The two of them. Made for each other. 

Fenris looks up, and the firelight makes his eyes glisten like wet glass, green and beautiful in his unbearably handsome inhuman face, and Cullen cannot. 

"We will discuss this again, Hawke. But not tonight." He empties his cup and sets it down. "I trust you have everything you need? If not, you remember the Tranquil Isaak, do you not? Ask of him anything and he will see to it." 

He leaves them there, warm before the fire, and goes to his cold bed, alone. 

* * *

He has not been reading in bed for long when he hears the rattle of boots on stone and voices in the corridor. 

"Shhhhh, be quiet!" 

A low laugh. "I am not the one making noise." 

"Just, shush." 

There is a thud as a door is closed, and Cullen settles, comfortable in the knowledge that he will not have to hear them again, but-- 

Tap. Tap, tap, tap. 

"What are you doing?" 

The sound of Carver’s voice is muted, but still discernable, and Cullen frowns because … he has not left the window open. He should not be able to hear _anything_ from his guest room, though ...well, no-one has ever used it before. 

Tap, tap. 

"D’you like it, then? The wood panels? Normally it’s stone, so …" 

"Mmmm. They are Tevinter in origin." 

"So you _hate_ them." 

Tap, tap, _tap, tap_. 

"I do not hate them," and Fenris sounds so amused that Cullen hunches over his book. That _elf_. "They are _familiar_. Familiarity does not always breed contempt." 

"You’re not making any sense, did you know?" 

There is a muffled sound, and a gasp, and then some laughter. 

"There. I got you." 

"You _did_. How _brave_ you are, attacking an unarmed and unarmoured victim. How _heroic_." 

The door is closed and the window is closed, and Cullen should not be able to hear _any_ of this, but he can and … it is intrusive. He had not realised that sound could carry so easily from one room to the other; he shoves his book onto the bedside table and shuts off the light, tucking his arm over his head to block out the sound. He does not _want_ to hear them. 

Maker, he does not want any of this. 

Fortunately, there are only muffled sounds and murmurs for a while, and then, still trying not to hear anything, he falls unhappily to sleep. 

* * *

It is sometime before dawn when he wakes, and though he nearly always has trouble getting _to_ sleep, he does not usually wake in the night unless something has disturbed him. No restless dreams this time, no buzzing beetle rattling against the window shutter. No, there is nothing, except … 

There. A noise. It is low and soft, and at first he mistakes it for the wind. But then it comes again, still low but louder now. That was a moan. That was a voice. 

"Ohhh … yeah …" 

That was _Hawke_ , and … Cullen’s face is instantly hot, knowing what it is he can hear. He shoves himself upright in the bed, reaching for the glyph on the wall that sheds light and … 

"Fffucking hell, I … Maker, _please_." 

That _is_ Hawke. His hand hovers over the light glyph, suddenly unwilling to activate it, unwilling to see anything. It would be worse in the light, he tells himself, though he is unsure. 

"Uh … uh … oh, my _Maker_ … " 

Maybe if he pulls the covers over his head. Maybe. It has been so long since he was in the barracks, where the shuffle and gasp of other knights was a common enough thing that he had learned to shut out the nightly sounds of self-abuse. But, even then … even then it was never the sound of _two_ , the sound of … 

" _Fen_ ris, you bastard, come _on_!" 

Two? but he can only hear-- 

There is a low chuckle that turns into a growl, and he wishes he could only hear the one of them because … 

They are 

and 

he is 

"OhmyfuckingMakeryou _whoreson_ just _give_ it, willyoufucking …fuck, harder, just harder, _I can’t_ … I ... _muh_ … …. … " 

And Cullen has a hand over his mouth, staring into the dark because he cannot bear it. 

"... AH! Aaaah …. oh … oh, Maker … oh, oh _fuuuck_..." 

Cullen presses his hands to his ears, and then realises that, well, it is far too late to cover his ears. 

_Andraste’s mercy._

Hands or no, there comes a low, guttural, _feral_ sound through the wall that is unmistakable, and something twangs down his nerves right to his _crotch_ , and …. Maker, what was _that_? 

Is he so deprived that he would imagine he could feel something like _that_ through the _wall_? 

Slowly, when everything seems quiet, he slides his hands down to his chin, hoping that they are finished doing … exactly what he knows they’ve been doing. 

Maker, it sounded so... (beastly, awful, rough, raw, violent, uncouth, vulgar) 

Good. 

There is a thump next-door, and Cullen presses his hands over his ears again, ducking back under his blankets and shoving his head under his pillow. 

It is ridiculous. 

_I am the Commander of the Order of Knights Templar in Kirkwall_ , he tells himself. _I do not hide under my bedcovers because someone is having a tumble in my guest room._

But Carver sounded so … Maker, is that what he likes? Is that what he wanted from Cullen, when he kissed him (because it was Carver who kissed _him_ , who backed him up against his desk and cupped his jaw in both hands and pulled him down and _kissed_ him, like a drowning man gasping for air)? 

Is that what he could have had, if he had not been such a coward? 

_Maker guard me against temptation_. Except. It is not temptation any longer, it is punishment for his _sins_ , because this is not something he can have. Not now. Not ever. 

He keeps his hands over his ears, desperate to hear nothing else, but even when the throb of his crotch dies down to a dull ache there is no sleep for him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more self indulgent than I normally permit myself to be. Apologies to anyone expecting anything sensible.
> 
> Also, while this bears some similarity to The Other Hawke it's not the same universe.

Cullen has never been very good at mornings. It is the one concession he allows himself, and has allowed himself ever since Meredith chose him as her second; mornings, Cullen is permitted to take his time. Still, he’s groggy and useless after his sleepless night, and perhaps he looks it because when he comes out to breakfast Carver stares at him. 

His voice, too, is thick and rusty. "Good morning, Hawke."

"Morning. Uh, Isaak told me to start," he explains, gesturing at the bowl of broth and seaweed in front of him. Cullen notes that a double serve of bread and cheese has been piled up on another plate and one broth bowl already emptied; he cannot fathom why he dislikes Carver’s cavalier sharing of Fenris’ food. Maybe it is the familiarity, the reminder that Carver is one half of something and Cullen is not. Or maybe it offends his sensibilities because it is vulgar, though it seems instead … quite considerate. 

In any case, Cullen nods curtly, sits down, and uncovers his own breakfast without saying anything. 

Kelp. More dratted kelp. Between the lack of adequate supplies and Kirkwall’s naturally maritime cuisine, Cullen has eaten more kelp lately than should be reasonably expected of any man. _But one must not complain_ , he tells himself, no matter how rubbery one’s breakfast. 

He glances up and -- oh. Carver is still staring at him. It’s a little disconcerting. "Hawke?" 

Carver starts and then, inexplicably, he _blushes_. "You … I’ve never seen you so _rumpled_ , ser." 

Cullen automatically smooths a hand over his hair and then regrets it. "You have breakfasted with me before," he says, but Carver is grinning now, reaching out with one hand. 

"Yeah, but not," and he gently straightens the neck of Cullen’s robes, "so early, maybe." 

It ought not to be anything more than a kind gesture, but Cullen drops his spoon into his bowl and then he has to fish it out with a breadknife and wipe the handle on his handkerchief, by which time Carver has finished staring at him and is polishing off the last of Fenris’ broth. 

"Shall I report to the Duty Lieutenant, ser? Or d’you have anything for me today? I wouldn’t mind looking in on the apprentices and, well, you know. The apostates." He says it so easily, and Cullen is still unnerved enough by the idea of _Carver Hawke_ hunting _apostates_ that he cannot help asking. 

"I still do not understand why you have persisted in disguising yourself as a Mage Hunter. I can see that it was a necessary measure to get you out of Orlais, but once you landed in Antiva why did you not simply come to me? Or, if you had sent word I could have," _not spent two years thinking you were dead,_ "made arrangements for you." 

Now Carver is staring again. He stacks his bowl neatly inside the other empty one, places his spoon in it, and frowns. "It’s not a disguise, ser. I _am_ a Mage Hunter. And I didn’t think you’d want me back." 

"Why would you think that?" 

Carver shrugs, looks down at his hands, curled into fists on the edge of the table. "You sent me away." He sounds grim, and Cullen cannot help himself. He reaches across the table and covers one of those fists with his palm. 

"I did that to save your life, Hawke. If you’d stayed … I could not have borne it had you died with me." It makes no sense, he knows. 

But Carver looks up, and when he does he is smiling, just a little. "It would have been a good death, ser. By your side." 

It pangs, like he has reached into Cullen’s chest and struck him with a tuning fork, and Cullen cannot think of a single thing to say. And then Carver peels away from the table, his hand sliding out from beneath Cullen’s smooth as butter. 

"So, if you don’t need me today, I might see how the kids are doing. Especially Dilly. She’s … a bit skittish, ser. Friendly face might settle her, if she’s having any trouble." 

Cullen closes the mouth he didn’t realise had fallen open. "Of course, Hawke. Make free of the Gallows as you wish. You are still a Lieutenant of the Order, regardless of … everything else." 

Carver salutes, turns to go, which is the moment Fenris chooses to step into the room. 

The change in Carver is obvious and immediate. " _Hey_ ," he says, warm and soft, and Cullen finds he is gripping his own knee beneath the table. "Thought you’d sleep longer." 

"It was cold." Fenris, who is already armoured, sounds almost petulant. "Kirkwall is chilly as the grave." 

"You can wear my cloak if you want," Carver tells him fondly, and then he cocks his head on one side. "You’ll be alright without me for a bit?" 

"I will survive, somehow." 

"Good. See you later, then. Come find me if you like." And he is gone. 

Fenris takes a seat at the table, sniffs, wrinkles his nose, and glowers at Cullen’s bowl of broth. " _Seaweed_." He makes the word sound vile. 

"I believe this is yours," Cullen says, indicating the bread and cheese Carver has left for him. 

Does Fenris smile? It is hard to tell. He accepts the plate in any case, and begins to devour it very neatly, using his fingers. Those gauntlets look sharp. It is perhaps unsanitary to eat from them, but Cullen is nothing if not a polite host, and so he says nothing. 

"Did you sleep poorly, Knight-Commander?" 

It is an innocent enough question, but if Cullen had hackles they would be up. "I had a little trouble. It is of no consequence." 

"Is it not?" 

Fenris _is_ smiling now, _smirking_ , and Cullen is certain that Fenris knows exactly why Cullen’s night was so sleepless. 

Bastard. 

As soon as he thinks it he chastises himself; that is no way to think of a guest, even a guest such as this. "It is not," he says firmly. 

Fenris’ glance is amused. "As you say." And then he pours two cups of tea, pushing one across the table as if it is some kind of peace offering. "Perhaps this will help, then." 

The man is infuriating. And far too knowing. "Thank-you." There is nothing else to be said. 

Cullen finishes his breakfast without comment, and then realises that Fenris will be at a loose end when the meal is over. What is to be done with him? Will he be content to sit quietly in Cullen’s chambers, but … no, Cullen does not like that thought at all. 

"Do you have plans for the day, serrah?" 

Fenris chews his mouthful, swallows, and the look he gives Cullen is measured, and measuring. "If it bothers you so much," he says evenly, "then perhaps you should join us." 

The flash-fire of hot blood under his skin ought to burn him. Fenris _knows_. And Cullen knows so little of him that he is uncertain of what the elf will do with this knowledge. Still, Cullen cannot admit that _he_ knows, so he takes a sip of his tea, too hot to be soothing, and meets that awful green gaze. "I will see Hawke today, about his business. No doubt you will be together, then." 

It takes him a moment to realise that the show of teeth in Fenris’ mouth is not a challenge. No, it _is_ , but not the kind that will end in blood. "We are always together, even when we are apart." 

How cruel he is. Cullen decides that retreat _is_ an option, so he gathers himself, pushes back his chair, and gets to his feet. "Then I will see more of you later, serrah." 

"Hmmm. I am certain that you will, Knight-Commander." 

A retreat is not a surrender. Cullen retreats to his room, and fumbles his way into his armour, without assistance for once, because he cannot wait for Isaak. When he emerges into the main room Fenris has vanished, and he is grateful of it, even as he worries what the elf is up to when Cullen cannot see him.

* * *

The Coterie problem is still a problem, but Cullen finds it difficult to focus. For some reason. _I have apostates in my Gallows, I am permitted a little uneasiness,_ he tells himself, and so it is that sometime after lunch he takes himself down to the apprentice quarters to check on the new arrivals. 

He finds Carver sitting on a stool in the midst of a ragged circle of children, apparently halfway through a story. 

"... and the dragon swept down, all wings and teeth, and _ate_ the Darkspawn up!" 

More than one of the apprentices gasps aloud, and the girl sitting on the bed by Carver’s shoulder presses her hands to her mouth. "And then what happened?" 

"The dragon turned into a lady. And she--" He spies Cullen, bemused in the doorway, and hesitates. "Uh … she took us all to safety." 

"A _lady_?" 

"Was she a shapeshifter?" 

"Was she a _mage_?" 

"Why didn’t she eat _you_?" the girl on the bed asks, looking skeptical beyond her years. 

Cullen chuckles and stands up. "I dunno. _Some_ reason. I’ll tell you the rest another time." 

There is a general groan of protest, and the girl on the bed kicks petulantly at Carver’s shin. "You always stop at the good bits," she says crossly, and then squawks as Carver reaches over to ruffle her dark little head. 

"I’ll finish it _later_." 

"I’ll bet there wasn’t a dragon at all. You made the whole thing up." The boy who says this is not part of the circle picking themselves up off the floor; he is leant against the wall, maybe fourteen years of age with a nose he’ll hopefully grow into one day and dark, furious eyes. Cullen knows his precious few apprentices well enough to know that this one is new. One of Carver’s apostates, then. 

Carver looks amused more than anything. "Aelric doesn’t believe in dragons," he says, and one of the apprentices twists around with a look of incredulity on his pinched little face. 

"But they’re _real_! Just ‘cause _you’ve_ never seen one. That’s like not believing in cows." 

"I’ve seen _cows_ ," Aelric says crossly, hands balling into fists by his thighs, ready for a fight. 

" _I_ haven’t," the apprentice admits. "What are they like? They look nice, in pictures, but some of them have great big horns. And teeth. Do they bite?" 

Carver snorts, making his way through the crowd of children to the doorway. "Ser? Did you want me, or ...?" 

"Of course he wants you." Fenris, so quiet and still in his corner that Cullen had not noticed him, steps in behind Carver like a shadow. "Why else would the Knight-Commander take the time to visit _children_?" 

"Not everyone hates children like you do, Fenris," Carver says, elbowing Fenris hard enough to earn himself a huff and glare. 

Cullen clears his throat. "I wondered how our new charges might be faring." 

The boy Aelric is now deep in furious discussion of cows with the interested apprentice -- his name is Lem, Cullen recalls, though he remembers little else about him. He is neither exceptional nor exceptionable, and as such Cullen has not paid him much mind, but the animated way that he is gesturing with his hands ought to stick in Cullen’s mind. 

"Good enough, I reckon. So, you _don’t_ want me, ser?" 

Cullen looks at him and … they are just words, but they lodge in him like thorns. _Don’t you want me?_

He clears his throat, that it not betray him, and jerks his head. "Follow me, Hawke." 

"To the Black City, ser," Carver says, smiling and falling in at Cullen’s shoulder same as he ever did. 

"That will not be necessary today." 

Cullen glances back. A few small faces peer at them around the door and then duck away, probably unwilling to be caught by the terrible Knight-Commander. Interesting. They are afraid of him. As they should; he is their keeper, after all. But still, it is something to consider. 

"If not the Black City," Carver says, still in a good humour, "Then where, ser?" 

"I have some junior knights I’d like your thoughts on." 

Carver chuckles, and it is a sound Cullen has missed so badly that he picks up his pace to cover how nearly he had stumbled. "You can have my anything, ser." 

It should not sound the way it does, and Cullen berates himself for hearing it so. He leads the way to the practice yard, strides out to the low wall that separates the yard from the walkway, and stops. "There. Go on. Try them, and tell me what you think." 

"As you wish, ser." Carver cuts him a neat salute, and then glances about until-- "Pax! You bastard, you never came to say hello!" 

"My mother was _married_ when I was born, I’ll have you know," Paxley calls back, bristling with eager cheerfulness. "At least I wasn’t raised by _dogs_." And they knock their fists together companionably, at least until Carver grabs him and pulls him in to be kissed on the face. "Urgh! What’s that, Ferelden? Pining for me, were you?" 

"That how we did it, back in Antiva." Carver shoves him, not gently, and Paxley is lucky to have set his feet, or he would have done worse than slide a little in the dust. 

"You _beast_. So, you back for good, or just desperate to see how the other half live?" 

They banter. There is a lot of shoving, but Cullen rests his palms on the wall and watches, and cannot help but smile. This is where he wants Carver, here in the yard, where he ought to be. This is where he _belongs_ , not out on a road somewhere, collecting apostates for the Circle. 

Though, of anyone, Cullen thinks Carver at least would be kind about it. 

Ser Paxley hands Carver a practice sword and a shield, and Carver steps off, bouncing on his feet like he’s been looking forward to this. 

"Come on, then. Who wants a go?" 

Cullen clears his throat. "Ser Abigail, if you please." 

She does well, though Carver is pulling his strokes and, really, he could go harder on her. Then he squares off with Chancy, and then Emile, and next underestimates Jessamin just enough for the boy to get a few good hits in. 

Still, he’s only sweating a little, and grinning hard enough that Cullen thinks someone ought to shut him down for his own good, when Knight-Lieutenant Rochard sighs very hard, gesturing for someone to bring him arms. 

"I will try you, Hunter-Lieutenant." His smirk is distinctly Orlesian, sly and suggestive around the edges, but Carver only laughs. "I have never had the opportunity. I am thinking this has been a terrible oversight, no?" 

Carver’s Orlesian accent is _terrible_ , but whatever he says to Rochard seems to make some kind of sense to the man because he snorts. 

"And also, _your_ mother." 

They go at it, pretty hard. Rochard might have seniority, but it becomes clear very quickly that Carver has more practical experience. It’s not that he cheats, of course, Cullen is sure he would _never_ , but he’s not afraid to use the edge of his shield to jab at Rochard’s face, or to hook at his ankles with a booted foot, and the Orlesian hasn’t been out in the field for a while. 

Cullen is thoroughly pleased when Carver eventually snags Rochard’s sword out of his grip and spins it into the dirt. 

The Knight-Lieutenant seems nonplussed by this, shrugging and handing off his shield to a recruit. "Such is war, is it not? You have grown. No longer the messy boy cluttering up my yard with his clumsiness." 

"Hah!" Carver is breathing pretty hard now, but he’s practically glowing in the noonday sun, and Cullen feels his palms itch. He could take him, not easily but it could be done. Carver drops his shield when he feints, a tell Cullen thinks someone ought to school him in, but … he ought not. Really, it would be inappropriate. As much as he would like to. 

"Is that all you have, Hawke?" 

Cullen had forgotten about the elf, so still and quiet by the wall, but now Fenris is leaning forward intently, and Cullen cannot help but envy the way it makes Carver’s eyes light up. 

"You wanna? Feeling left out, hey?" 

Fenris shrugs, looks away, but Cullen can see the smile he is hiding. "You are over-confident, glorying in your shallow victories. I merely wish to remind you of your shortcomings." 

"Oh, someone get the mouthy elf a _sword_!" Carver yells gleefully over his shoulder, and then Paxley comes over with a practice claymore, surrendering it with a bow and a grin. 

And then. 

It is beautiful, the way they move. Fenris has the advantage of reach and _speed_ , and the way he bends around Carver’s heavy blows (which really ought to catch and beat him _flat_ ) is astonishing. It seems ridiculous that the elf should be so skilled with such a large weapon, but Cullen remembers that he is not, well, _natural_ , and that those barbaric markings (Carver once said) grant him incredible strength and stamina. 

It shows. Maker, the weight of his _strikes_. Cullen realises his mouth has gone dry only when he tries to swallow, and … yes. Made for each other. That is what they are. 

But Carver is not, Cullen knows, expert in the sword-and-board. He takes one hit awkwardly on his shield, and then another, and after that it is unsurprising that Fenris drives him back until he hits the wall; Carver _has_ to yield, and it would be a better defeat if Carver didn’t laugh so openly when crying ‘mercy’. 

Fenris smirks, propping his weight on the leather-wrapped practice sword. "Shortcomings?" 

"Yeah, all right. Shit. Lemme catch my breath, you fucker." 

"Are you sated, then?" Fenris lopes back to the centre of the yard, and Cullen realises that the others have cleared it, now, that everyone is watching as Fenris drops into a defensive stance, lifting that sword as though it weighs nothing. "Or must I take you again?" 

"Oh, you can take me _any_ bloody time," Carver mutters, shoving himself upright. "There’s no-one I’d rather." His gaze skitters sideways, alighting on Cullen for a moment before darting back. Or did it? Cullen cannot be sure, and he does not know what to make of it in any case. 

Fenris drops his chin, his smile almost feral. "Indeed. Yes. Knight-Commander," and the dip of his sword tip is not strictly respectful. "Will you join us?" 

Cullen blinks; Fenris is _mocking_ him, he is sure of it, but the eagerness in Carver’s face as he twists around and sucks in a breath is … flattering, at least. "Oh, _yes_ , ser. Come on. We can take him between us, for certain." 

"You mistake me, Hawke." Fenris’ grin deepens, and Cullen thinks, _How white his teeth are, and how sharp._ "I mean for he and I to take _you_." 

"Oh … sure. Well." Carver shoves himself upright. "Then I’m gunna need a two-hander." 

He has not even agreed. And yet. How could he refuse, with his blood already hot for it? 

Still. "Do you think yourself so skilled as to defeat myself _and_ a man who has only just now bested you?" 

The grin Carver flashes him ought not to be so... "We’ll see, ser." 

Maker’s mercy. And yet … Cullen does _want_ to. It is simply … except, he supposes, it is not _too_ inappropriate, and there, he has convinced himself. 

"Very _well_. Since you are so confident. Ser Paxley, if you please." 

Practice arms are not nearly as comfortable or familiar as his own, but it has not been so long since Cullen had time to spar that they are a hindrance. Though, sparring at this level? He does not think he has had _that_ opportunity since Meredith. 

He tests the weight of his weapon, settles his shield, and nods to the elf. "Shall we?" 

"Do not be deceived," Fenris says, dryly amused. "He is better against more than one. It is an advantage. We had best have at him from both sides." Cullen is trying very hard not to hear anything but the surface meaning of that, but the deep roll of Fenris’ voice makes it difficult to ignore. 

"I will … take the flank," Cullen says, and that low chuckle is enough to make his face heat. 

"No plotting, Fenris, let’s just _do_ this," and now Carver sounds impatient, which, really. Someone _ought_ to school him. 

_He’s such a_ pup _, still._

But then they begin and Cullen’s first thought is, _Maker’s Light!_ , because Fenris’ warning had not been in jest. Carver’s strokes are broad and heavy, broader than Cullen would have considered wise, were it not for how deceptive they are. They _seem_ reckless, inefficient, clumsy, but they turn at the last moment and _focus_ , and the first time Carver’s blade nicks Cullen’s shield he feels the shockwave judder all the way to his shoulder. Maker. If he’d taken that one full-on it might have broken his arm. 

And Carver keeps _laughing_. It is aggravating, to say the least. But. 

It’s fun. Maker knows, he hasn’t had fun in a long time, but that is what this is. 

Perhaps Cullen is holding back. Perhaps not. Fenris certainly isn’t, or so he thinks right up until the elf does _something_ that lights up his skin and the air bursts with lyrium. Carver rocks back, catching Fenris’ next blow on his shoulder. It staggers him, but he shakes his head like a wet dog, backing up to get some room. 

"Maker! Are we doing _that_ , then?" 

Fenris snorts, and _glows_ , and after that things become difficult to follow. 

Still, in the end, it is instinct and numbers. Fenris is enough of a distraction; Cullen finally gets in behind Carver long enough to worry him; Carver takes his eye off the elf just enough to smite them both. It’s a good smite, fast and heavy and _strong_ , but Cullen is Knight-Commander of the Gallows, and would not deserve the title if he could not turn aside a _smite_. So he does, walks through it, and, as instinct demands, unleashes a smite of his own, then puts his weight behind his shield to throw Carver off his feet. 

It’s only wood, but when the point of Cullen’s practice sword comes to rest on Carver’s gorget, Carver raises his hand, grinning up from the dusty ground. "All right! I’m done. You win." 

A defeated man ought not to look so pleased. 

Cullen puts up his sword, and offers Carver his hand. "Well fought, Hawke. We _will_ have to do something about your ego, however. You are too cocky for your own good." 

If Carver takes it amiss he does not show it. "Mostly," he says, hauling himself upright and bracing his hands on his knees, catching his breath, "it’s just show." 

"Mostly is it _skill_ ," Fenris argues, limping across the yard to touch Carver on the arm. "But I will not deny there is a fair measure of _cock_." 

Carver’s snigger is entirely juvenile; Cullen hopes that the heat in his face can be passed off as exertion. Fenris simply looks smug. 

And then Carver runs his hand down Fenris’ arm, still grinning, though it is somewhat softened. "How’s the ankle?" 

"I will survive." 

"Let a Healer look at it?" 

Fenris makes a disgusted noise. "There is no need." 

Carver looks like he’s going to argue, but shrugs instead. "Don’t go so hard, then. Don’t wanna break you." 

"I am not made of porcelain," Fenris grumbles, but he permits Carver to take his sword and rack it, and then permits himself to be enticed into sitting on the wall, and Carver turns back with a sheepish look on his face. 

"Um," he says, suddenly and unexpectedly shy. "Ser. You wanted my opinion?" 

Cullen remembers himself. The yard is filling again, though there is rather more gossipping than sparring going on. And looking. They are all sneaking glances, as if he cannot see it, and he hopes this is good for morale rather than bad for it. He has never been very good at judging such things, but the grin on Paxley’s face when Cullen surrenders his arms is heartening. 

"Yes." He leads Carver over to where Fenris is seated, for no reason other than the fact that there is a space there, a wide berth accorded the elf who, to be honest, has probably garnered for himself the most attention of the three of them. "The juniors," Cullen says. "Your thoughts, please." 

"They’re good." Carver chews his lip, hair sticking sweatily to his brow. "First one -- Abigail? She’s _solid_. And the kid with the beard’s gunna be fine once he sorts out his feet. But. I thought there’d be more of them, to be honest. How’s recruiting?" 

"I have kept it light," Cullen admits, quietly so that it will not carry. "We do not have the resources to field a full garrison. Things have been … difficult, in the wake of recent events." 

"Two years isn’t really _recent_ , ser." Carver makes a face. "But I guess … without Chantry money, it’s got to be tricky. Supplies, and such. _Wages_. Though, I bet there’s enough hungry bellies in Kirkwall to make three squares a day look pretty appealing." 

It is true, and more insightful than Cullen would have expected. "I have withheld wages where possible. By-and-large, the men understand, which is to be expected. We did not take our vows for the _money_. Still, it is troublesome, but we are sufficient for now." 

Carver sniffs, scuffs a boot in the dust, and the glance he casts about is in no way suspicious, yet... "There’s a war coming, ser. Are we ready for it?" 

The armour-piercing question. Are they? Cullen hopes so, but hope is not enough in the face of numbers. "The Maker will provide," he says, and Carver’s skeptical look says what he thinks of that. 

"I’ve seen a few Sisters about." 

Cullen knows what he’s getting at. "When the Chantry was destroyed, we opened our doors, of course, to any survivors." 

And Carver knows what _that_ means. "So, extra bellies, and no tithes." 

"That ... is an accurate assessment." 

It takes him a moment, frowning at the ground with his hands planted firmly on his hips, but he nods. If Cullen didn't know better, he'd think the stubborn set of Carver's jaw ominous. "All right, ser. Guess we need to do something about that." 


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner is simple, a grain stew rich with cockles that Carver picks casually off the side of Fenris' bowl. He's in a mood, querying Cullen on matters of provisioning until he finally throws down his spoon in disgust, swigging deeply from his ale mug and scowling balefully.

"So, we're starving, is that it?"

It is something of an exaggeration, so Cullen treats it as such. "I know I keep a humble table," he begins, but Carver shakes his head, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles whiten.

"Ser. I talked to the quartermaster. If you think we've enough to last the winter, then I ... fuck. We _don't_. Not even."

It is impudent, and yet. "There will be opportunities to reprovision. Fresh supplies come in daily."

"Fish and stuff, you mean?" He pulls a face. "What's going to happen when the grain in the city runs short? There won't be any fish coming in then, not without the coin to bid for it."

"As I have said, Hawke, I have taken measures to stretch our coin a little further. And, should it be necessary, rations can be shortened."

The look Carver gives him verges on insubordinate. "Right. So what's to keep the troops from rioting when there's no coin _or_ food for them?"

"Discipline. Loyalty. Their _vows_."

But Carver is obviously unconvinced. "Can't smite on an empty belly, ser. Anyway, they don't _have_ to. Who's in charge up at the Keep?"

"Seneschal Bran and Guard-Captain Hendyr are the authority there. However--"

"Great! Aveline's sure to--"

"Carver, I _cannot_ beg assistance from the City Guard."

"Why _not_? Anyway, it's not begging to ask a friend--"

"Hunter-Lieutenant." He says it calmly enough but it makes Carver jerk, eyes wide with shock. "It is commendable that you would give so much thought to the management of the Gallows, but this is not your responsibility. You have other duties, do you not? This is, forgive me, no longer your home." 

The colour drains from Carver's face. Cullen immediately wishes he could take it back, rephrase it perhaps and yet ... it is only the truth. 

Fenris glances from one of them to the other, but says nothing, his expression blank.

"Permit me to believe I know what is best for the knights under my command," Cullen says into the terrible silence, but Carver is shaking his head, hands balling up into fists and his neck has gone blotchily red with what Cullen can only assume is anger.

"With all due respect, ser," and they both know that 'with all due respect' means 'fuck you to the void', "but I don't see how faffing about is going to solve anything. We ... _you_ can't just wait. There's no help coming. Val Royeaux will let the Gallows starve, if it suits them. Maybe they _want_ that. Maybe it's somebody's grand bloody _plan_." He looks up, blue eyes wild and dangerous, or is it desperate? "They blame us for all of it, you know. Us. Meredith. And, and you." He takes a deep breath. "And my brother. But you, as well."

Cullen does not quite know how to respond. "And you?"

"They don't even know I exist," Carver says bitterly, but that is not what Cullen meant.

"Do you blame me?"

" _No!_ " He takes a breath, gestures helplessly wth one hand. "How could I?"

Cullen wants very much to catch his hand and hold it tight, but Fenris is _right there_ , silently observing all of this. Oh, he's made himself small, holds himself very still, but he is listening to them and watching with _those eyes_ , and Cullen feels a flash of something that might be hatred, that Fenris should stand between them as he does.

It would be wrong to hate him. Cullen .... resolutely does not hate him. As much as he would like to.

"Do you blame your brother?" he asks, two parts diversion and one part curiosity.

Carver rocks back in his chair, rolling his head on his shoulders and letting his breath go out in a rough, frustrated gust. "I don't know. I don't ... no, I don't think so. He _tried_. It wasn't him, anyway, it was Anders."

"And Anders?"

Carver winces. Cullen wants to touch him _so badly_ , but he does not. "Garrett tried at that, too. But. I guess it's not all roses, being the Champion."

He looks up, and his eyes are so ... and Cullen _wants_ , but this is something he cannot have.

Sometimes, when Carver looks at him with Solona's eyes, it is all Cullen can do not to offer him everything.

" _Hawke_ ," he says, and Carver cannot understand, and if he did then ... then maybe all the Gallows would burn to dust, because ... well. "Hawke," he says again, and he is himself, he is all right, he can manage the strength of feeling that threatens to destroy him. "We will weather this storm. I promise you." What else can he say?

"I won't let you fail, ser," and he sounds like

_I am your man, ser._

Something. And Cullen wants it. And he can't let it go, though... though he _must_.

"I would have you with me," he says, and he knows he should not, that this is beyond foolish. "If there is an end to this."

Carver frowns, but he does not look up at his elf, and that is _significant_ , is it not? But he does look up into Cullen's eyes, deliberate and purposeful and, and, ah, so very Carver. "As I have _said_ , ser."

Cullen loves him. Oh, Maker, how he has denied it to himself, but he _does_. 

It makes it so much the worse to know this, and then, in the stillness of the night, to hear them again, doing it _again_ , and this time Cullen pulls the covers over his head at the first hint of it, but pulls them down shortly because it is so pointless.

Carver makes broken noises through the wall and Fenris may as well not _be_ there, for how silent he is. Except for how clearly he must, for Carver to keen like that.

 _Caterwauling like a wanton._ Maker, how Cullen would like to be the cause of it, to be the one there with him, the one to make him _howl_.

He is stiff and aching in his smallclothes, and the blankets are heavy upon him. He does not want to rut against them. It is sordid. He cannot help it, tries lying full on his belly to quiet himself but that only makes it worse. Would it be so wrong to pretend? To imagine Carver beneath him, under his hands, firm and lusty and _willing_?

It would. But, Maker, how he _wants_.

He rises early enough that he does not have to look either of them in the eye over breakfast, and escapes to his office where the Coterie problem is waiting for him.

The day winds out, long and dreary. Knight-Lieutenant Rochard suggests a pair of recruits worthy of knighthood, and Cullen agrees with him on one but not the other, not yet. Around midday Isaak comes in with his luncheon and a note from Seneschal Bran that Cullen resolutely ignores. In the afternoon First Enchanter Edith outlines a roster for the Harrowing of the new apprentices, and defends Mage Jermaeus' actions in gathering them together outside the Circle.

"You cannot punish him for running, Cullen. He was terrified. We were _all_ terrified. Threat of death does that to a person."

She has mellowed, he thinks, in the aftermath of Meredith's failed Annulment. Perhaps she feels they have between them made a better Gallows, though he understands her frustration whenever things take too long or become too complicated to carry off neatly. She has always been decisive. He respects that.

Which is why he actually considers it when she proposes that instead of punishment they should reward Jermaeus with the rank of Enchanter.

"Think of the message that would send," he argues, feeling uncomfortable with the idea that it might encourage runaways.

"Yes," she says drily, folding her arms beneath her bosom and staring him down. "That actions in the best interest of young mages are _worthy_. You want apostates to turn themselves in, don't you? How better to tempt them than with the promise of leniancy and, perhaps, a little respect?"

Respect means much to the mages, he has come to realise, now that they have some few freedoms. He supposes that people who have no need of coin find value in less concrete rewards. And it is understandable, to be sure.

"Also, he's proven himself more than capable of managing a fistful of younglings. Let him take on a few apprentices of his own. At the very least it will keep the man occupied, used as he is to doing for himself. It may go some way toward making him feel himself less of a traitor."

"For running, do you mean?"

Her expression is ... he's not sure. "For leading them _here_. When they might otherwise have remained free." She shakes her head. "Which brings me to another matter. One of the girls is pregnant."

Cullen remembers. "Ah ... Tarla, I believe?"

Edith looks surprised, but she rallies. "Yes. I suppose Ser Carver told you that."

"He did."

She sniffs, her eyes narrowing. "And did he tell you that he promised to let her rear the child?"

"He ... did."

"And when do you propose we tell her that he lied?"

It is a difficult question. Cullen has given it a little thought but, to be honest, has come to no useful conclusion. Except-- "Perhaps it need not be a lie."

And now she is astonished. She opens her mouth, hesitates, and then ploughs pointedly ahead. "So you mean to uphold his word?"

Does he? "I am undecided. Yet ... it seems not unnecessary."

She makes a sound of amusement. "By which you mean that it is possible." She huffs, turns her head. "What a precedent that would set. I support it, of course. What else would we do with the child, when there is no Chantry to give it up unto?"

This was his own thought. "The Sisters here might have other views on how best to approach it."

Edith scowls. "Oh, those. Mother Nerun."

"Yes," he says, and they both know. Nerun has been awkward, an obstacle in many ways, trying to gain a foothold in the Gallows for her people, an advocate for them. Which is understandable, of course, but how it _rankles_. That she would decide she knows best how Cullen should manage his knights and how Edith should manage her mages, when the woman has never dealt directly with either.

He hesitates to call her an enemy, and yet cannot help but think that Edith and he ought to present a united front against such an enemy.

Still. "Mother Nerun means well. She has the interests of the Chantry at heart."

"And the interests of the Chantry have served us so very _well_ ," Edith says sourly, untangling a hand to tap her fingers against the spread of Cullen's desk. "So. Let the girl come to term, and then let her nurse the babe, and after ...?"

"'After' is a long way off, Edith. We will face it when it comes."

She seems satisfied, and takes her leave, and Cullen cannot help but feel the depth of yet another strike at the ties between the Gallows and Val Royeaux.

 _Which is in no way a Fereldan agenda,_ he tells himself, it cannot be. He is not so prejudiced, nor so petty.

Is he not?

Is the fact that he feels certain that Kirkwall would benefit from some Fereldan austerity, a little Fereldan reticence, a taste of Fereldan determination ... is that an indictment of Kirkwallian excess and Orlesian sentiment?

It is not. He is sure.

 _Is what I want of Carver in no way_ Orlesian _in its decadence?_

He is unsure.

He buries it, and it is easy to bury beneath the weight of the tedious _things_ brought to his attention as Knight-Commander. Always, before, he'd shielded Meredith from the mundane, the tedious management of the Gallows, and perhaps he ought to name a Captain to take care of it for him, but he cannot let it go. _It has to be me,_ he thinks, wallowing in the depressing tedium of it all. _Anyone else would get it wrong._

Agatha could do it. He knows. He ... does not want to let it go.

His mood has turned restless, so he bestirs himself to take a walk and look in on the teaching rooms. It is gratifying that so many of the mages do not seem afraid of him, do not shy nervously away when he steps in. The apprentices, yes, they are still wary, but the Harrowed mages who knew him under Meredith's command are easy with him for the most part. This is good. It is progress. He knows himself to be strict with them in many respects, but still, he could hardly be as strict as Meredith had been. And he is stricter with his knights, which must go some way toward fostering morale. Even if it is only by comparison. That is something to be proud of, surely?

He tries not to take it to heart whenever one of the mages _does_ shy from him. He tries harder not to take it as reason for suspicion. Nervousness is no proof of blood magic. Still, the startled reactions of a gaggle of junior mages to his sudden appearance in their otherwise deserted study is irritating, and he takes note of each of them, in case their nervousness has some illicit basis.

He hopes not. He does not want to have to take action but if he must then he _will_. He is not soft. He hopes he will not have cause to remind his charges of that.

Introspection has brought him low and he does not know what to do with himself. It is too early for dinner (in his quarters with Carver and _Fenris_ , Maker help them all) but he is at a loose end because he cannot concentrate, does not wish for diversion, wants only his solitude and a small space in which to _relax_.

And Carver to speak with and talk to and, oh, he is in over his head, because if Carver were a wave he would gladly surrender himself to it, were he the sea Cullen would _drown_ himself and yet, yet, yet...

 _I will divest myself of this obsession,_ he tells himself, taking the steps to his quarters two at a time. _I will master it, because it is unworthy of a servant of the Maker,_ and it sounds so righteous he can almost forgive himself the hubris of it, the pride inherent in the thought that he is capable of ruling even something so weak as his own flesh when he knows, and he shoves the door of his chambers open with more force than strictly necessary, he _knows_ \--

Cullen stops short, the thought spluttering out like a guttered candle.

Fenris is standing in the middle of the room, clearly in the middle of pouring himself a cup of tea. He has a book open on the desk, one Cullen recognizes as a monograph on the Persuasions of the Qun. He has clearly been bathing (in Cullen's private bathing chamber, a luxury of the Commander of the Gallows, one that Fenris asked about and for which Cullen had given permission). His hair is wet, his skin still damp, and the suite is full of the scent of sweet herbs and steam.

And he is, absolutely and without question, naked.

Maker's _breath_ he is beautiful.

He has a towel clutched in one fist but it does nothing for modesty and he is magnificent, lean brown muscle streaked with lyrium (and now, with the lyrium warm under his heated skin, Cullen can _smell_ him, oh Maker). Cullen has never before appreciated how extensive the markings are; they cover him from toes to chin, and are undeniably a work of art, however unwanted.

Fenris does not seem concerned by his nakedness, simply raises an eyebrow, and Cullen realizes he has been caught staring. “Ah. Forgive me, I was not aware--”

“There is no need. The fault is mine. I have taken no offence.” He sets down the teapot carefully and then flexes his fingers, watching Cullen. He makes no move to cover himself, indeed there is a challenge in the way he sets his feet, in the cant of his hips, the tilt of his head. (Cullen does not mean to look, but cannot miss the half-hard cock hanging heavy against a lyrium-streaked thigh.) “Perhaps you would like some tea, Knight-Commander?”

Cullen closes his mouth and tries not to stare. “I have interrupted you. I … will leave you in peace.” He turns to go, and Fenris does not move but the sting of his voice stops Cullen in his tracks.

“Is it in the nature of Templars to always rebuff such frank invitation?”

Cullen begins to turn, remembers the other’s state of undress, and settles for speaking over his shoulder. “I do not take your meaning, serrah.”

“Have I not made it clear? You are an intelligent man, Carver tells me. All I see is indecision and willful ignorance.”

It is an insult, and yet, Cullen feels that perhaps he deserves it, has earned it. _Would I not throw challenge to a man who coveted_ my _lover?_ Still. “Will you be plain with me? Say what you must, I am equipped to bear it.”

Fenris laughs, a low, rich chuckle, and now he is moving, crossing the floor on bare, noiseless feet but Cullen can feel his approach like the heat of a fire. “Then _let_ me be plain. I have given you every reason to act. Are you not tempted? I can see you desire him. Why do you _wait_?”

He is too close now, and Cullen cannot face him. “You mistake me, serrah.”

“I do _not_.”

He can barely speak. “I have no intention, that is … Mercy, do not make me speak of this.”

Begging mercy from a man who owes him none. It is shameful, and yet what else can he do? Should Fenris call him out he will be caught between a lie and disgrace, and either way Carver will have no more respect for him, nor should he.

“No intention? Then … I do not understand. What is the difficulty?”

He cannot bear it. Cullen turns and, Maker, Fenris is almost upon him and he is glistening, taut like a bowstring and beautiful. It is the Maker's punishment, Cullen is sure, for his own perversity. He can imagine them, the gorgeous beast that is Carver Hawke and this incredible creature, sliding against each other shamelessly in the dark... 

“ _You_ , serrah. Do you not think that you might be an obstacle in this? Were this indeed anything, which I have not said,” he adds, though really, what is the point?

Fenris blinks at him, and then takes a step back, lifting a hand not in entreaty or threat but as though examining it, opening his fingers and fixing his gaze on his palm. “Then … I repulse you. I thought …”

“No,” Cullen protests. “You do not …" It is irrelevent. "Maker, why are you asking me this? Do you _want_ me to, to make overtures to your lover? To woo him? Do you mean to give him _up_?” For shame, the part of him that wishes Fenris would say yes.

“I mean to do no such thing. I _will_ do no such thing,” and there is a sudden savage fury in his face, teeth flashing white and dangerous in the shadows of Fenris' mouth. “There is the crux of it. I will not lose him to an unpursued fantasy, will not stand by as he pines for something he could have, should he be willing and you willing. And I am satisfied that you are, I have _seen_.”

Cullen inhales sharply, and his lungs feel so shallow and weak it leaves him dizzy, and his voice when he can muster it sounds so small. “And is he?”

Fenris makes a rough, disparaging sound. “Do you doubt it?”

There is nothing to say to that, nothing of use. Cullen opens his mouth but words are dry on his tongue and he must swallow to wet his throat. “How can you say these things to me? Knowing what they mean?” _Do you not love him as I do?_

“ _I_ am master of my own jealousy.”

Andraste’s mercy, he sounds so sure.

"If you think he would love me the less for having you then you do not know him," Fenris says, deep and quiet and merciless.

"Perhaps, then, I do not." 

Is that pity on Fenris' face? It is awful, whatever it is. "You are a fool."

"And you are my guest," Cullen snaps, and he cannot help the heat in his voice because the elf is aggravating beyond belief. How dare he speak so?

"I am. I ... forgive me. I mean no insult."

Cullen nods, though they both know that he does. "As you say. Good day to you, serrah. I will see you at dinner."

He turns again to go and this time Fenris waits until he is on the threshold. "I mean no insult in this, either. You are wrong to think Hawke has any home but this one. Lothering burned. His mother's estate is a tomb. Val Royeaux will not have him and nor does he wish that it would. There is only the Gallows left. It is cruel to deny him that."

Cullen cannot reply. He walks out, and if the door slams behind him he cannot berate himself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have just realised I've been saying 'Carta' instead of 'Coterie' all this time ... bah!


	4. Chapter 4

In the end, Cullen decides that he cannot face them, and sends Isaak with the explanation that he has been detained and they should dine without him. He considers asking Isaak to favour fish in every part of the meal, but dismisses it as beneath him. Tempting, but petty. _Unworthy_.

And then. He takes off his armour, rolls up his shirt-sleeves, and goes through the junior officers reports, and they are quite simply awful. It isn't just the execrable spelling, the chicken-scratch of inexperienced hands, the careless disregard for punctuation, but the criminal abuse of the common tongue that has him pulling faces at the parchments on his desk. Some are a little better at it than others, penmanship generally legible, a stronger grasp on how to actually construct a sentence, but they all have a tendancy to begin with, "Dear Ser," which makes him wince.

There is a strong urge to return the bulk of the reports to their authors with, "See me," scrawled across the footer, but instead he singles out the worst offenders and arranges for them to sit in with one of the Sisters for a lesson in formal writing.

He knows himself moody in the evening when Agatha comes to him, dismisses the recruits on duty outside his office, and sets a cloudy bottle in front of him. "Confiscated some whisky, ser. Care for a sniff?"

"It would be a terrible contravention of the rules," he tells her, and then he pulls a couple of tumblers down from a shelf and places them on the desk. "Though it has been a long day."

"If the recruits know we drink it when we take it off them, they might do better at hiding it, ser," she says, tilting her head to regard him with a level of frankness he does not in any way mind when it comes from her. "Wouldn't want to give anything to the officers for free, and all."

She has a point, self-serving as it may be, and he pours them both a generous tot, sliding hers across the desk and smiling. "I cannot disagree."

He likes her. He always has, since she took pity on him when he arrived in the Gallows, scattered and wretched as he was then. At first he admired her strength, her steadfastness, her competence; he has had no reason to cease in his admiration of her since. And, perhaps, he permits her some leniancy as a result of that, but it has never served him ill.

He drinks and she drinks, and then she sits with her feet spread, balancing her elbows on her knees. “So.”

“So.”

“Hawke’s back, then.” Agatha is blunt, always, so he ought not to be quite so shocked as he is. She lifts her tumbler like a toast, and drops it to her mouth. “I’ll drink to that.”

It isn’t exactly appropriate, somewhat blasphemous, but Cullen raises his cup. “To Hunter-Lieutenant Carver.”

She gives him a wry look. “So you’re holding _that_ against him.”

When she reads him like this it is irritating. “I hold nothing against him. He is free to choose as he pleases.”

“Maybe you ought to hold _something_ against him,” and she eyes him over her cup. “Maybe up against a wall.”

It is unfair of her to say that when he has liquid in his mouth, but at least he doesn’t choke. Quite. “ ...I.” He has nothing. “I don’t--”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she says. “Ser,” and she smiles, just enough. “Lying’s a sin.”

She is correct, of course. “Lust is also a sin.” It is an admission of guilt.

“So they say.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Still, on the list of sins to commit in this place, it ranks pretty low. He’s not a recruit anymore; he’s all grown up now.”

It seems pointless to deny it. But. “He is _attached_. I would not presume.”

“Hah.” She drinks. “So there's his elf. But the way he looks at you ... he’s still your boy. He’s always been your boy.”

He has, but-- “That is of no matter.” He tells himself.

“ _Ser_.” The look she gives him is level and heavy enough that he cannot dismiss it. “That’s _all_ that matters. Let them sort out whatever it is between them, but,” and she shrugs one shoulder sharply, “Come on. I just want you to have something you want, for once.”

It seems absurd. “Has it all been so tragic then, my life?”

“It’s had its ups and downs.” Of anyone, she would know. He has told her. She leans back, her expression flat. Her serious face, that he knows so well. “Mostly downs. But I remember the day Hawke walked into the Gallows. I’ve never seen you so taken with anyone.” Her smile touches her eyes. “Your _boy_. If I’d respected you less, I’d have thought … And then you didn’t.”

It sounds so simple when she says it, but-- “How could I?” Not that he will admit, even to himself, that he _could_ have, that Hawke had been only ever an arm’s-length away. _How he looked up to you. How he_ smiled _. All of that, yours if only you had asked for it._

“Like I said.” She rocks forward, dark hair falling around her cheeks like a curtain. “If I respected you less. But then … _Maker_ , Cullen.” This smile is broad and secret, cutting up from beneath the fall of her hair. “You really know how to string a thing out.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Some sense of self preservation raises his cup, hides him behind it. But what can he _say_? “I have not intended … anything.”

“I _thought_ you might not have. I forget, sometimes, that you’re not the same kind of selfish as the rest of us.” He has no idea how to take that, but she finishes her drink and drops her tumbler to the desk with a sharp clack. “He’ll go, you know it. He’ll blow out on the wind and you won’t see him again, maybe not ever. I know you think he always comes home,” and she glances up at him, brow furrowed with concern, “but it’s bad out there. I heard they saw a dragon out on the Wounded Coast. You never _know_.”

Cullen squeezes his eyes shut, face turned toward the window because he does not want her to see. She probably knows, though. “ _Agatha_ ,” he says, and he hopes she understands all the aggrieved gratitude he means by it. “Such married wisdom.”

He turns back and catches her smile, a smug, satisfied thing. “Well, tying the knot has to have some benefits.”

“I envy you,” and it takes the blunt shove of her frown for him to regret the words.

“Some of us aren’t made for it,” she says, slow and quiet, not meeting his eye. “Some of us didn’t think they wanted it. It comes up on you, all of a sudden or maybe slow and, well. Some of us get something else. Whatever that is. Don’t throw it away.”

She is right, he knows, and also wrong because … it isn’t so simple. He cannot simply reach out, press a hand to Hawke’s chest and _ask_ for this. Not least because Hawke has already made it clear that he is … that he has chosen. And yet.

Perhaps it _is_ that simple.

 _It would be a sin to squander it_ , he thinks, though he knows this is selfishness speaking, something he had thought behind him.

“Don’t let some misplaced sense of _duty_ keep you from something that would make you happy, Cullen.” 

"It is hardly so easy as you say," Cullen argues. "There is the small matter of Serrah Fenris, if you recall."

"Oh, I recall. I saw the three of you yesterday, going hammer and tongs." She grins. "The whole bloody yard saw that. I won two sovereigns off Rochard when you didn't all disappear immediately upstairs for an afternoon 'nap'."

Cullen gapes at her, and then remembers himself. "How inappropriate."

"How very." She tops up both their drinks, and settles back in her chair, cradling her cup in her lap. "But I'm sure the thought never even crossed your mind."

Of course not. "You must think me very dull," he says quietly, inexplicably ashamed of himself. How old he has become. How _staid_.

But she shakes her head. "Not dull. Reticent, maybe. In matters of the heart. And shy, in matters of the bedroom. Though, for all I know you've got a tab at the Rose and a fetish for feathers." She shrugs, watching him splutter. "I doubt it, though."

"Let me assure you that I do _not_ ," he says, with all the firmness he can muster.

She sighs, tipping the liquor around in her cup. "Nothing wrong with it if you did, ser. _Cullen_ ," and she looks up at him, very serious. "If I were you, I'd do it."

She does not mean the feathers. He takes a deep breath. "And Serrah Fenris?"

"Well, I'd do him too," she says easily, mouth twitching with amusement. "Both of them together, if they liked. If I were _you_ , anyway. Come on, Cullen. Would you really say them nay if they asked?"

Would he? He doesn't know. How _would_ he answer that? And then, in the considering of it, (Fenris, naked and demanding, but offering him _something_ and so frustrated with him for refusing it, and before that all his sly words and sly looks and _suggestions_ , oh Maker, oh, _truly_?) he realises it is possible that he already has.

"Huh." Agatha regards him with some consideration, and nods. "I like that look. Whatever you're thinking, you should act on it. If you want my advice, ser," she adds, setting down her cup and getting to her feet. "Which I think you do."

"Always, Agatha." It's true.

And maybe she is right.

When she's gone he finishes his drink, and then pours himself another, and tries to _think_. (Not about the fact that his Lieutenants are betting on his sex life, no, that can wait for later.) 

_Why don't you join us?_

It seems suddenly so obvious. 

_To the Black City, ser._

And he cannot bear it any longer.

The distance between his office and his quarters has never been so great, the stairs never so steep, and when he enters his chambers and finds them empty he has almost lost his nerve. _This is foolish, I am a fool, Fenris was right to call me so,_ but then he remembers the conclusion he has arrived at as to _why_ Fenris said that and cannot help but blush.

Nerve or not, there is no-one here and for a moment he wonders if they have abandoned him, _Blown out on the wind,_ , and his heart jerks painfully against his ribcage. But no, there is Carver's sword, casually leaned up against a bookcase, there is his cloak thrown over the back of a chair, his armour on a stand, and now Cullen hears the deep rumble of Fenris' voice.

They are in the guest room and the door is ajar, warm light spilling out into the passageway. Cullen places his hand on it and it opens, swinging slowly inward while Cullen's lungs seem to fill with sand, smothering him.

Fenris is up against the headboard in a mass of pillows, and Carver is lying between his thighs, back to Fenris' chest, both of them in their shirtsleeves and decadently barefoot. Carver is holding a book on his knees while Fenris reads aloud over his shouder, slow and hesitant, so it is Carver who sees Cullen first, startling hard. 

"Ser!" He frowns, closing the book and coming up onto his knees. "Is something wrong?"

Cullen struggles to find his voice. "No."

And Fenris is smirking, leaning up behind Carver to speak into the curve of his ear. "He has come for you, Hawke."

"I--" but he cannot say it. He clears his throat, wets his lips, cannot _say_ it.

"What do you mean?" Carver glances back at his elf, and then at Cullen, and then his face reddens like a sunset. "I don't ... understand."

"You do," Fenris insists, and his hands tangle in the fabric of Carver's shirt, tugging it loose from his trousers. "Do not pretend your innocence."

"I _don't_ ," Carver argues. "You _tell_ me."

Fenris snorts. "Knight-Commander?"

He has to say _something_. "I have considered your invitation, serrah, and ... and I accept it."

Carver's eyes go wide. "What?" He twists to stare at Fenris in shock. "What did you do?"

"Only what you would not." Fenris looks pleased with himself. He gives Carver a push, not rough, just firm. "Go. Fetch him. He is yours."

Carver gapes at him. Then he tilts his head, expression twisting into something else. "Are you _sure_?"

The sound Fenris makes is close to a growl, dark and threatening, and yet-- "Do you doubt me?"

Carver shakes his head, and then he holds out a hand, the look he casts Cullen's way so powerfully longing that Cullen cannot help but be reeled in like a fish on the line. "Ser. Will you _really_?"

Cullen closes the door and reaches for Carver's hand. "Do you doubt _me_?"

It is enough to make Carver laugh, and then Cullen is pulled up to the bed, until his knees bump into the mattress and he has to brace himself, and then ... then Carver just looks at him. He runs his free hand up Cullen's chest, over his shoulder, feeling him out with an awed expression. Then he blinks, shakes his head sharply like a wet dog, and smiles the shyest smile Cullen has ever seen from him.

"You're really here and I'm really awake and this isn't a dream, is it?" It has the shape of a question but does not have the sound of one, and Cullen, who is not sure how to proceed without his heart thudding a hole right through his chest, can only shake his head. Carver lets out a sigh, sliding his hand up to rub his thumb against Cullen's jaw, testing the place where beard becomes once-clean-shaven-now-stubbling skin. "I've wanted you. For ages. I didn't think it would ever ..." He stops, fingers stroking up into the line of Cullen's hair. Cullen sees him swallow. "Maker, I want to do everything to you, I don't know where to start."

"Kiss him," Fenris suggests from where he is leaned up once more against the pillows at the head of the bed. He is watching them with his hands on his thighs, fingers flexing restlessly, and Cullen is unsure what to think.

But Carver grins, says, "Yeah, all right," and kisses him, and he does not have the capacity to think anything at all.

It is as he remembered, Carver's mouth hot and open and eager, trying to drink him down, and Cullen is helpless. How he _wants_ , and he wraps his arm around Carver's waist, palm flat in the hollow of Carver's back, pulling him up hard. Carver makes a weak sound, pressing against Cullen's chest and then tilting his head back to suck in a lungful of air as though he's drowning. "Ser!" He grins. "You taste like ... have you been drinking?"

"A little," Cullen confesses, and perhaps he can blame his dizziness on the whiskey but it would be a lie.

Carver's grin is shameless. "Antivan courage, hey?"

Fenris chuckles and Cullen finds it does not rankle, is not cruel, and he cannot be offended by it.

Carver pulls him down again, both hands hard in Cullen's hair, scuffing it up with his fingers and sucking Cullen's tongue until he makes a sound in his throat that, apparently, Carver likes. " _Maker_ , ser. Fucking hell, you don't even," and he catches Cullen's lip in his teeth and drags on it. "I'm gunna make you do that again."

"As you wish," Cullen breathes, and he cannot think of anything except how good Carver feels, how lively, how solid. Everything he would never admit to himself that he wanted, and right here. He spans his hands over the heavy muscles of Carver's back, and buries himself in Carver's mouth. He feels weak before this, and yet, the way Carver moves for him, presses against him so shamelessly (and is so shamelessly hard against Cullen's hip) makes him feel inexplicably strong, too. He would dwell on that, wonder at it, but he cannot, lost as he is in Carver's mouth.

There are hands on his hands, pulling them down, and he startles, blinking his eyes open. Fenris has come up behind Carver, is sliding Cullen's hands over the firm curve of Carver's arse, watching their hands with an expression Cullen can only interpret as avid.

"Better," he growls, and then he yanks Carver's shirt up, over his head and off, and tosses it onto the floor. "Much better."

"Oh, you're gunna get _bossy_ , aren't you?" Carver has his eyes closed, hands dropping to smooth down the front of Cullen's shirt, still grinning as though it is his name day and this is all some wonderful gift. Which, perhaps it is. "Gunna tell us what to do, yeah?"

"That is my intention," Fenris agrees, settling back on his heels and apparently admiring the breadth of Carver's back. "Should it be necessary."

"Fenris," Carver says, opening his eyes to smirk at Cullen, "likes being in charge. Of _everything_."

"Lies," Fenris says, and he rakes his nails down Carver's back, making him arch into Cullen's chest. "Less talk. Or do you need your mouth filled?"

Carver ducks his head to graze his teeth against Cullen's shoulder, sending a shudder down his spine. "Probably I do need that." Then he pulls Cullen onto the bed, kissing him soundly until Cullen cannot breathe, and cannot stop making small, useless sounds as he tastes him and tastes him.

Eventually, Fenris shifts on the mattress, and Cullen looks up at him, suddenly self-conscious. He does not know how dishevelled he must be, but Carver is red-mouthed and wild-eyed, his hair a disaster, and Cullen can only imagine the worst of himself. But Fenris does not appear displeased, indeed he hums with satisfaction, and tugs pointedly at Cullen's shirt. "This is unnecessary."

"It sure fucking is," Carver agrees, and then he is lifting Cullen's arms, coaxing the garment over his head, and Cullen had not been considering fleeing but now, he thinks, there is no turning back in any case.

"Boots," Fenris prompts, and Carver laughs.

"You could _help_."

Fenris snorts, tossing his head disdainfully. "Unwrap him yourself."

So Carver sighs, slides off the bed onto the floor between Cullen's feet, and starts on the laces of his boots. Cullen sits up, self-conscious still, but Fenris runs a hand down his back and it is oddly soothing. 

When Cullen's boots and stockings are set aside, Carver comes up on his knees between Cullen's thighs and cups Cullen's jaw in both hands to kiss him again. This time it is gentle, just careful nips of his teeth, the brush of his lips, tiny licks against Cullen's tongue, and Cullen is embarrassed to hear himself moan into it. He cannot seem to let go of Carver's arms, hands wrapped too tight around him, his every movement stiff and awkward and he is making such a mess of this, it is awful to think how much.

Fenris' hands on his back make long slow strokes, the humming in his throat turning warm and welcoming. "Shhhh," and his breath is hot on Cullen's neck. "Relax."

Cullen shudders. They are both so practiced at this, so confident, and he is nothing but, but pent up urges and guilt, and he was a fool to think he could do this, could compete with the grand things he has heard Fenris do to Carver the past two nights. _Maker, forgive me my pride._

"No, no." Fenris has his hands on Cullen's ribs, stroking him with his clever, clever fingers, tracing lines of fire up his sides and then running his fingertips over Cullen's nipples -- it is a shock. He had not known they could feel so good when touched, and he gasps into Carver's mouth. "Relax, Knight-Commander. Look. Look at him."

Carver leans back, flushed and sweaty and mussed, and Cullen does not know what Fenris wants him to see but what is before him is glorious.

"We could ruin him, between us," Fenris says, and then he licks the side of Cullen's neck, catching the lobe of Cullen's ear in his teeth and sucking on it and Cullen cannot help the sob that is dragged from his throat.

"Look," Fenris whispers, and Cullen looks, and ... Maker. Carver is watching them and he is _raw_ , mouth open and red, his eyes darkened until there is hardly any blue left in them. "See how he wants. Touch him."

Cullen nods, and he brushes Carver's chest with his fingers, bravely running his thumb down through the black thickness of hair to drag around one pink-brown nipple, and the sound Carver makes gives him courage enough to do it again. Then, as he has wanted to, for _so long_ , he ducks his head to kiss Carver's neck. He is salty, delicious, skin pebbling under his mouth, and Cullen wants to bite him so ... so Cullen bites him.

"Fu-uck," Carver whines, and the ragged catch in his voice judders down Cullen's nerves like a hot brand, hard enough he has to pull away to catch his breath. 

"Carver," Fenris confides, low and quiet into Cullen's ear, "is noisy. Perhaps his mouth _ought_ to be filled."

Cullen cannot miss the flash of Carver's eyes, the way he licks his lips, glancing down to where Cullen's trousers tent disgracefully. "Yeah. Yeah, I want that. Can I?" He drops his hands to Cullen's belt, easing it open with fumbling fingers. " _Please_ , ser?"

How could Cullen deny him? "You may," he says, and he thinks it an awkward thing to say, until Carver has his belt open and is easing his trousers and his smalls down over his hips. They end up pooled around his ankles, another awkward embarrassment, but the way Carver is staring at his crotch is _more_ awkward, and he would cover himself but Fenris catches his hand and flattens it to the bed.

Carver glances up, and his gaze is hungry. "That's a lot to be carrying around in your pants, ser."

Cullen feels his face heat, but then Fenris is leaning over his shoulder to see, and makes a noise of approval. "You can manage it, even so."

"Course I fucking can," Carver retorts, ducking his head to press a kiss to the head of Cullen's cock.

And then he _licks_ , and Cullen gasps, and Fenris catches him around the torso to hold him up. "Maker ... Maker's _blessing_ ," and then Carver has taken Cullen into his mouth and it is, it is, it is more than anything he could have expected.

Good Maker, his _mouth_. Velvet-soft and tight and hot, and Cullen groans with the feel of it, of him, as he sucks his way down until he has Cullen in his throat, for mercy's sake. Cullen's eyes are wrenched shut, head leaned back on Fenris' shoulder, but Fenris will have none of it. "No, you must look. Look at him. He wants you to _see_."

Cullen forces his eyes open, forces them down, and Carver is _looking up at him_ his wonderful, wicked mouth stretched around Cullen's cock and those dark blue-touched eyes fluttering closed and then open again as though he loves this, as though he _wants_ this. Then he moans and Cullen bites his lip hard because it is all too much.

"Please," he begs, because he can feel himself tighten, the ache in his belly building like melt-water behind a dam, and he does not want it to end but if Carver does not stop then it will all be over, and too soon. "Please, have mercy..."

Fenris fists a hand in Carver's hair, yanking him up and holding him. "Enough, for now."

Carver lets out a frustrated snarl. "Let me! I wanna ... we can go again after, but I just ... I want it, can I? _Please._ "

" _No_. Have patience." Carver looks willfully disobedient for a moment, and then he rolls his shoulders, grimacing with frustration, and Fenris lets him go. "Good boy."

"I'll give you fucking 'good boy'," Carver grumbles, but then he's taking Cullen's trousers all the way off, and then he stands, stripping the rest of his clothes with some clumsiness. He stands unselfconsciously naked, the hard length of his cock jutting out of its dark nest of hair and Cullen wants to touch him so badly that it takes him a moment to realise that he can, that it is permitted, and that in this it is more than appropriate. He lifts a hand, brushes his knuckles along the side of Carver's cock, and Carver shudders beautifully. "Maker, do that again."

Cullen does so, bold this time, tracing his fingers beneath and then taking Carver in his palm to slide fully along him, and Carver groans. 

"Fuck, don't stop..."

He is so soft here, so vulnerable, and Cullen smooths the skin back to expose him fully. He has never wanted a man in his mouth, had never imagined anyone's mouth on him, did not know that was something that could be done but ... now? He thinks he could, wonders what it would be like, wonders at how Carver had seemed to enjoy it.

Carver's hips buck forward, pushing himself into Cullen's grip, and then he has his hands on Cullen's shoulders, bending down to catch Cullen's mouth and suck on his lip, making desperate sounds that fizz and spark in Cullen's groin like tiny points of lightning. Carver is _rutting into his hand_ , and Cullen cannot bear it, makes the worst sound, clutching at Carver's arm in desperation.

"Enough," Fenris says, very firmly, and Cullen is startled enough that he lets Carver go completely. Carver makes a frustrated sound, wraps a hand around himself and _glares_ at Fenris over Cullen's shoulder.

"Fucking _what_?"

"Would you spend on the Knight-Commander's belly, then? Or will you wait to have him inside you?"

Cullen's heart cannot take the sound of those words in that voice so close to his ear.

Carver seems torn, but then he fixes Cullen with a contemplative look that turns quickly into something else. "Can't I have both?"

Fenris' chuckle is a terrible thing. "Come, then. Let us try."

Maker, Cullen's heart might stop entirely.

It takes some arrangement, but then Carver is spread out on his back across the covers, and Cullen is between his legs, and then Fenris insists on pushing a pillow under Carver's hips, shedding his own clothes with a grace that is unfair, honestly. It is all so ... Cullen does not know what he expected. The practicalities of it all. He had not known, and they both seem so comfortable with it that it makes him feel clumsy by comparison.

But Carver grins up at him expectantly and he tries to put these feelings aside. Fenris makes him hold out his hand and pours oil from a flask onto his fingers. "What is this?"

"Necessary," Fenris tells him, but Carver chuckles.

"Not _completely_ ," he says.

Fenris makes an amused sound. "Indeed? You would regret it."

"Wouldn't," Carver protests, but he leaves it at that, nudging Cullen with his foot. "It's all good."

Cullen does not know what to do, but Fenris takes his hand and wraps it around Carver's cock, and then they stroke him until he whines. "Fuck, Fenris, I thought you wanted me to _wait_."

"And you will." Fenris pulls Cullen's hand away, then pours more oil onto them both, and reaches down. "Here," and he shows Cullen how to slick Carver and work a finger inside him and it is ... incredible. "There. Like so. Now you."

Cullen does, marvelling at the heat of him, at his own boldness to do this, to _him_. "Oh."

"Mmmm." Fenris takes his hand, firmly pushes his own finger in alongside, and Carver's breath hitches wonderfully.

"Fuck, fucking ... that's both of you, isn't it? Oh my fucking ... Maker, you ... that's cheating!"

Fenris' other hand is steady on Cullen's hip, his cheek hard against Cullen's shoulder, and Cullen can hear his breathing deepen, can feel the brush of what can only be cock against his thigh, and he _knows_ what that cock looks like, Maker in his _city_.

"Two," Fenris mutters, and when Cullen does not immediately comprehend Fenris bares his teeth against Cullen's arm. "Give him two, he will need them."

Two. Cullen presses two fingers in beside Fenris' one, and then Fenris crooks their fingers together and Carver _whines_. "Oh, please! Come on, please, please will you _please_ , somebody, fuck me!"

"Impatient," Cullen breathes, and Fenris hums in agreement, but he takes up the flask again and then his oil-slicked hand is on _Cullen_ , and it is _good_. Andraste's grace, he can smell the lyrium under Fenris' skin, can feel the tang of it in the air, and he cannot help but groan, shamefully. Shamelessly. He can no longer tell the difference.

Carver lets out his breath all in a rush. "Fuuuck. That's ... not anything I thought I'd see _ever_."

But Fenris is showing Cullen how to put a hand here, under Carver's knee, to push him up and back, and then his cock is guided up against the tightness of Carver's flesh and then, holy Maker forgive him, he is inside, and it is so very ...

"Easy," Fenris warns, both hands on Cullen's hips, "go slow."

"Don't," Carver argues, brow knotted, and he licks his lips. "Go _hard_."

Cullen tries to hold back. "I don't want to hurt you..."

"You can't," Carver growls, hooking an ankle up over Cullen's hip and Fenris' hand.

And there is Fenris, low in his ear. "I won't let you."

They find between them a rhythm, and it makes Carver curse and beg, inarticulate pleading sounds, but they are _good_ sounds, so Cullen does his best to satisfy him, and oh, it is magnificent. Too magnificent. No, it is too much, too _damned_ soon, and Cullen gasps, fucking into Carver until he can't help it, and he sobs with relief as his world shatters into dust.

In his extremity he is aware enough to know that this is not how things should end. "Sorry," he gasps. "I'm sorry!"

Carver looks anything but sorry. "Don't be," he says, and he curls, reaching for Cullen's shoulder and coming up to meet him, to find his mouth and lick at it. "Fuck, ser, don't _ever_."

Cullen has to catch his breath, and then Fenris is shifting him, they are both, uncoupling him and easing him onto his side against the covers. Carver comes up over him on hands and knees, laughing and mouthing at his neck, soft and easy and insistant, trapping Cullen against the bed between his good strong thighs, and then he stiffens, making a rough noise in his throat. Fenris is up behind him, his eyes wide and bright, and between the shift of Carver's hips against Cullen's still firm cock and Fenris' low hiss, Cullen knows exactly what Fenris is doing to him.

"Fuck, oh fuck," and then Carver has taken Cullen's hand and wrapped it around himself, and his eyes are dark and desperate. "Ser, please, come on, please..."

Cullen handles him, marvelling at how _hard_ Fenris drives against him, at the harsh sound of Tevinter curses in that deep voice, at Carver's keening, and how insistantly Carver rocks into his hand.

Then-- 

Carver drops his face into the hollow of Cullen's neck, muffling his open mouth against Cullen's skin, and Cullen can feel the hot spill over his fingers, the shudder that takes Carver over from head to toe, the weight of Fenris' thrusts, and it sends twinges all the way to his crotch hard enough to make him gasp. Fenris growls, tips his head back, and the flutter of bright lyrium courses over him in bursts, and Cullen can _taste_ it, Maker's truth, can smell it, can feel it, reaches for it, wants it so badly.

Carver groans, turning his face into Cullen's hair and breathing hard. "Fucking _void_. I think ... Maker, that was ..." and he tries to push himself up but seems to lack the strength. Still, when he finds enough of it, he grins down at Cullen and he is so _messy_. "I'd do that again."

Fenris smacks him hard on the arse and Carver yelps, jerking away, his cock sliding through the mess on Cullen's belly. "You are insatiable."

"You're just _old_ ," Carver sighs. He smiles, weak and lazy, and then kisses Cullen's mouth, also lazy, until Fenris does something to make him squeak, and he pulls away. "Fuck, what?"

"Me, also," Fenris demands, leaning up over Carver's shoulder, and Carver turns his head to kiss Fenris' mouth too. Cullen's heart jumps, but it is not awful, not as terrible as he thought, to see Carver suck hard on Fenris' lip and sigh so heartily. If anything it is beautiful.

He is, however, very sticky, and when Fenris peels away from them, returning with water and damp cloths, Cullen drinks some of the water, cleans himself up as best he can, and tries not to dwell on how indelicate it is.

It is hard to feel embarrassed when Carver drops down beside him and loops an arm around his waist, nuzzling into his shoulder. "That was good," Carver says, so matter-of-factly that Cullen finds he has it in him to chuckle.

"I am glad. I thought ... perhaps--"

Fenris does not let him finish. "Very good," he says, green eyes wide and alien over Carver's shoulder, but not unfriendly. 

It cannot last, this comfortable companionship. After a little while, Cullen sighs and tries to extricate himself, but Carver is stubborn. "Stoppit, I'm comfy."

"I should go," Cullen says regretfully, but Carver just opens an eye to peer at him as though he's mad.

"Why? Don't. Stay."

"I should not," Cullen insists, but now they are both regarding him, one pair of eyes curious and the other confused.

"Don't be daft," Carver argues. "Stay with us." He twists, seeking confirmation from his elf. "He can stay, right? Is that okay? Isn't that what we're doing?"

Fenris blinks slowly, eyeing them one and then the other. "Yes. Stay. Please."

It is foolish, knowing that in the morning he will have to take his leave of them, but Cullen finds himself inclined to foolishness just now, and allows himself to be cajoled under the covers. It is ... blissful. Then Carver has extinguished the light, and really, it would be rude to sneak away. Even if he could, once Carver has found his hand beneath a pillow and laced their fingers together.

"Night, ser." 

There is a press of a damp mouth against his cheek, and Cullen thinks that if this is all he may have of them, it was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you it was PWP.


	5. Chapter 5

Cullen dreams of blood magic, of demons, of a face he has never forgotten and the pain inflicted while that face _smiled_. He struggles, as always, but this time he rouses because a firm hand is rubbing down his spine, and a sleep-thickened voice whispers in his ear, "Shhhh. S'okay. Just a dream."

He sleeps again and dreams of Ferelden, of snow-covered hills and spiced mead and eyes as blue as a summer sky.

When he wakes, something is different. It’s so warm. And the warmth is … he is not alone. Someone is tucked up under his shoulder as though they belong there, a hand splayed over his chest. It takes some time to remember _why_ this is, and then—

Cullen opens his eyes. The head of hair on his shoulder is white, which comes as something of a shock. Fenris is using his arm as a pillow. Carver is not in the bed. It is just they two, nestled in together under the blankets.

It is ... unexpected. Cullen clears his throat. “Ah.”

Fenris opens one eye, glares at him, and burrows further into the hollow of Cullen’s shoulder. “Mmmph,” he says, unhelpfully.

 _Where is Carver and why are you_ cuddling _me?_ But Cullen does not say any of that aloud, just lies as still as he can, trying not to disturb the elf who he suspects might injure him should he become disgruntled. As though he is not nearly _always_ disgruntled.

Though, he had been anything but, only last night.

Cullen feels his face heat and knows himself to be blushing.

The door bangs open and Cullen jerks with the shock of it, but it is only Carver, in his trousers and little else, bearing a tray. He grins, unbearably cheerful for the hour (whatever hour it is, but it must be early or Isaak would have been in to wake him -- oh Maker, no, he wouldn’t have...) and kicks the door shut behind him.

“ _Hey_.” Carver pauses for a moment, gaze raking over the bed, and lets out a long breath. “You … um. Hungry?”

The tray turns out to hold hot bread with butter and honey and a teapot, and Cullen finds himself ravenous. Carver sets up the tray beside the bed, sits, and pats Fenris gingerly.

“Hungry, Fenris?”

“My belly is not yet awake,” Fenris growls from beneath his bulwark of blankets.

“Let Cullen up, then.”

Fenris makes a threatening noise, but he rolls away, taking most of the covers with him, and curls into a lump with a shock of white hair sticking out of it. For some reason this makes Carver grin all the more; he yanks one of the pillows out from under Fenris, offering it up to Cullen and ignoring the rumble of protest from the bedcovers. “Ser?”

That he would style him so, with all they have done. It is a reminder. Cullen takes the pillow, sits up, props himself against the bed-head, and accepts a cup of tea from Carver, who then steals a bit of blanket from Fenris to tuck around Cullen’s hips. It is embarrassingly domestic, and Cullen cannot bear how it aches to be treated so tenderly by someone as brash and bold as Carver.

“There,” Carver says with some satisfaction, and busies himself buttering bread rolls and slathering them with honey.

It is a pleasant delusion, Cullen thinks, to be a part of their morning, but a delusion nevertheless, and only permits himself to wallow in it for the time it takes to drink his tea, eat his bread, and lick his sticky fingers clean.

There. He takes a deep breath. Long enough. To reality, then. “Thank-you, Hawke.”

Carver smiles, ducking his head. “S’alright, ser. Thought you might like breakfast in bed. I mean, I think I’d like it. Not that anyone _ever_ wakes up before me,” he adds pointedly, eyeing the elf-shaped lump in the bedcovers.

Cullen shakes his head, because he needs to make himself clear. “For all of this. I … would never have expected any of it.”

“Me neither.” Carver rubs Cullen’s leg through the blanket, glancing shyly upward. He’s so scruffy just now; his hair sticks up in spikes along one side, and there is stubble coming on his jaw, dark and prickly. He has a red mark on his neck, down by his collarbone, and Cullen has a vivid memory of worrying that flesh with his teeth, of the taste of Carver's skin and how it had made him gasp.

 _Did I do that? Was that_ me _?_

Still. “As I have said. Thank-you.”

Carver snorts, licking his lip. “Yeah, well. You’re _welcome_.” He runs his hand down until his palm is cupped around Cullen’s kneecap, and he squeezes a little.

“This is, of course … irregular.”

“Pretty irregular,” Carver agrees, thumbing honey and crumbs out of the corner of his mouth. “Pretty good, though.”

It is, as far as Cullen is concerned, something of an understatement. “Yes. And as such … of course I will not press you for … I will not trespass on you further. Rest assured.”

Carver blinks at him. “How do you mean?”

“Being, as this is,” and Cullen struggles to put it into words even as he steels himself to do it, “of a singular nature. And not to be, ah, repeated in a common way.”

“Not to be … but, ser, I thought you--” He breaks off, snatching back his hand and fixing his gaze on the bedclothes. “I mean, of course. As you like. Whatever you want, ser.” He sounds stricken, and Cullen does not know what to say.

“ _Stop_ that.” There is a sudden shifting of blankets, and Fenris emerges to glare at Cullen and then Carver and then both of them together. “The two of you. Why must you make this difficult?”

Carver flinches. “Fenris--" he starts, but Fenris kicks him through the blankets.

“No. Your Commander means to reassure you that he expects nothing here. Though he is a fool if he thinks you are done with him so easily. And you,” and he meets Cullen’s eye so sharply that Cullen’s chin jerks up, all by itself. “Hawke believes you have had your fill of him and are throwing him off. Though _he_ is a fool if he thinks I would permit you to hurt him so easily.” Fenris pushes himself up, hugging the covers to his chin, still glaring.

Carver gapes at him, and then at Cullen, and then he scowls. “Fenris, you don't _know_.“

"As though I do not," Fenris grunts, and he extends a hand, fingers curling. “Tea. If I must be awake."

"Bossy," Carver chides, but he fills the last cup, sweetens it with honey, and passes it over.

Cullen cannot sit idly (nakedly, defencelessly) by any longer. "Forgive me, I do not know how ... _this_ ... is. I have ... I never meant to intrude on you. There is no place for me in--"

But Fenris makes a low angry sound in his throat. "There is. You are _in_ it. Now. This is the place for you."

"Don't," Carver pleads, and he sounds so wretched that it makes Cullen feel terribly guilty. "Fenris, don't argue, if he wants to _go_ \--"

"But he does not." Fenris turns a merciless look on Cullen, and Cullen forces himself to meet it. Maker, his eyes are so green. It is like looking through coloured glass. "Do you, Knight-Commander? If you _wish_ to go, then say so. If you have had enough of this."

Cullen cannot lie. "I do not wish to," he says, and Fenris makes a satisfied sound, sipping from his cup. But. "I do not see how I can stay. Nor why you would insist that I must."

"I have _told_ you already." Fenris frowns at him. "I am master of my own jealousy. I will not be ruled by it."

Carver twists to stare at Fenris, and then he makes a face Cullen cannot read. "Jealousy is meant to serve man, eh?" He pats Fenris' leg. "So you're _not_ jealous, then?"

Fenris scowls. "As I have _said_."

Carver chews his lip, looking up at Cullen through the dark fan of his eyelashes. "And you, ser? I don't even..."

Cullen swallows, licks his lip, and chooses his words carefully. "I confess myself envious. Jealousy, however, would imply there was something of mine I stood to lose." _And you are not_ , though he cannot say it, _not mine._

"There is nothing for you to lose here that you cannot keep instead." Fenris props himself on one hand, regarding Cullen with a bright and awful gaze that is... no, Cullen is learning him now. He looks worried. Yes, that is what this is. "If you wish for it."

He does. And, strangely, he does not like to see Fenris so concerned. "I do not... I cannot keep something that is not mine to have." Fenris makes such a face at that, and Cullen hurries on to forestall him from whatever acerbic comment is brewing in his throat. "But, should I have cause, or... Oh, I do not know how to say--"

"Does that mean you _do_ want, ser?" Carver asks, one hand hovering over the hump of Cullen's hip under the covers. 

Cullen breathes in, breathes out, and he can do this, can _say_ this. even if he cannot say it outright. "Must you 'ser' me? Private as we are."

It is gratifying how easily Carver laughs, the tension suddenly gone out of him, his hand dropping to squeeze Cullen through the bedcovers. "I reckon I'll call you whatever I like in private, ser."

Cullen is not quite sure how but it seems things are settled now, and Carver climbs up onto the bed to kiss him and then leans over to kiss Fenris too, settling back on his heels afterward to grin at them both. "Well. Enjoy your bloody tea. Some of us have work to do."

It is a rest day for Cullen, he realises, (and Carver knew this, though how he knew Cullen does not know) but Carver is up and tugging a shirt over his head, rooting around in a chest for fresh stockings. 

"Hawke, you do not have to," Cullen begins, but Carver flashes him a rotten grin, so awfully cheeky that Cullen _ought_ to take him to task for it. But how could he?

"No special favours, ser. People might talk."

Fenris snorts, reaching across Cullen to help himself to the last of the bread and honey. "As though you can prevent them. It is what people do."

"People can sod off." Carver shrugs into his robes, doing up his ties with an excess of energy for a man so throughly ruined the night before. "I don't give a fuck in the void. I know _you_ don't. And you shouldn't either, ser." He tips them a sloppy salute. "See you later. Stay in bed all day if you like. No-one'll miss you."

Then he's gone, though Cullen hears presently the clang of armour from the next room and knows he is girding himself.

Fenris eats his bread, sips his tea, and eyes Cullen with a vaguely irritated expression. Cullen isn't sure what to say, or do, so he sits, fiddling with his empty cup. Naked, still so very naked beneath the covers, and … it is _awkward_.

"Have another," Fenris suggests with an eye for Cullen’s teacup, inching down into the blankets and settling warm and pleasant against Cullen's side.

"I ... would not presume on you further," Cullen says, feeling he ought to go but also very, very comfortable.

Fenris shakes his head, cradling his cup in both palms and warming his face with the steam. "There is no presumption. I would welcome the company."

"Would you, now?" It is a surprise, after all the surprises.

"You are very warm," Fenris tells him, and is he teasing? Cullen cannot be sure, but he pours himself some tea regardless . "I have questions for you."

Oh. Cullen suddenly does not want to be there, but Fenris hooks a leg over his calf and he is trapped. "Ask, then."

"You believe your mages safe, is that correct?"

It is not the question Cullen had expected. "They are safer here than they would be if left to run apostate." He knows it for Carver's 'peasants with pitchforks' argument, and feels himself embarrassed.

Fenris hums, frowning. "No, I did not mean in that way. I should have said 'tamed'."

Ah. "You are safe from them," Cullen reassures him. "Their danger is contained." _For now_ , for he must be honest with himself.

"We are none of us safe from them," Fenris argues, eyes narrowing. "Would that they were all executed, or made Tranquil. There is no other way to ensure safety from their corruption."

Maker forgive him, there is a part of Cullen that agrees with this. And yet. "My duty is to see to it that such measures do not become necessary. I did not defy Meredith in her madness only to repeat her mistakes."

"Hawke would free them all, were it left to him." 

"I am sure he would not," Cullen argues, but Fenris arches an eyebrow at him so haughtily that he cannot help but be reminded that Fenris knows Carver better than he. Perhaps.

"The girl that ran did not run from Hawke, but from me. He was convinced she was no threat, and so he let her go." 

Fenris says it so matter-of-factly that it takes Cullen a moment to comprehend. "I ... that goes against the dictates of the Chantry."

"The boy that died, also, was not slain by Hawke, but by me." Fenris eyes Cullen warily. "I tore out his heart." Cullen does not know what to say. After a moment Fenris goes on. "This is the pact we have between us. When he sees fit to let them go, he does so. When I see fit to subdue them, he does not stop me. It is ... uneasy at best. We quarrel." He takes a breath, looking down at his hands wrapped around his cup. "It is a quarrel I would have you mediate. If you are willing."

It is not a quarrel in which Cullen can have any part, except ... except Carver is _his_ in this, in this one thing, in his duty. "Do you expect me to take your part in it? We may be of a mind in some regards, but not all."

"I expect no such thing. I _expect_ you to have the best interests of your charges at heart, mages, knights, and all. This, Hawke tells me, is the duty of a Templar. And you are, he tells me also, the best of Templars."

It is not true, Cullen knows. "Carver may be mistaken in his estimation of me."

"Perhaps. And perhaps you are the one who is mistaken." 

There is a silence, then, one in which Cullen wonders things he thinks himself unworthy to wonder, and there is no easy way to break away. But Fenris seems to feel his discomfort, shifting uneasily beneath the covers.

"Perhaps ... I have borrowed one of your books."

That they were reading when Cullen interrupted them last night, and then-- ah! Will he never be free of his blushes? He clears his throat. " ‘The Persuasions of the Qun’. Does the subject interest you?"

"It does. It is also ... practice." Does Fenris seem embarrassed? _He_ does not blush. "I have difficulty, reading. I came late to it."

Cullen remembers the halting hesitance in Fenris' voice as he read, and remembers also how Fenris took pity on him when he ... Maker, the things Cullen has done, that he had not imagined he could ever do. The gratitude is unexpected and overwhelming. "Then, permit me, if I may be of any service to you in that regard."

Fenris nods, hands Cullen his empty cup, and reaches for the book.


	6. Chapter 6

After luncheon, Fenris declares that he wishes to bathe and Cullen leaves him to it, wandering down to the training yard. On his way he passes a senior enchanter and the recently apostate Jermaeus, deep in discussion; Jermaeus offers him a nervous bow and the time of day, his eyes tracking Cullen's sword-hand in a way that Cullen does not much like but to which he finds himself resigned. 

He is unsure what he expects of the training yard. There are his recruits, his junior knights, Agatha barking instruction and encouragement as necessary. She sees him there by the wall and comes over, saluting him with a solemn expression that does not touch her eyes. 

"Isn't it your day off, ser?"

"I find myself without diversion," he tells her. "Pathetic, is it not?"

"I wouldn't call it that, ser. Dedicated, maybe." She eyes him, and seems to like what she sees. "I take it you had a restful evening, then." 

He clears his throat, aware that his face is warm and probably incriminatingly red. "I ... yes."

"Good." Her mouth twitches. It is not, he reminds himself, insubordinate of her. "Hawke took off this morning up to the Keep. Said he had business there, though that was all he said."

"I am sure he has the best interests of the Gallows in mind." He is _not_ sure, but he wishes to be sure, which is much the same, is it not?

"Mm-hmm." Really, Agatha ought not to look so knowing. "Well, everything's under control here, ser. Rochard would like to see you on the morrow, though, to discuss some ideas he's had regarding the Sisters. If I were you, I’d enjoy the rest of my free day."

It is practically a dismissal, and Cullen takes his leave.

When he returns to his rooms Fenris is dressed, poring over a book while drinking a cup of tea, and Cullen is struck by how dangerous he looks, how stark and forbidding in his armour. The spikes of his pauldrons and sharp tips of his gauntlets do him no favours in that regard, but perhaps they suit him in a way that Templar robes and plate would not.

But Cullen would like to see-- he checks himself. The desire to have Fenris in Templar colours (Marcher colours, at that) is unexpected, and something Cullen resolves to reflect upon.

Fenris glances up, nods a very little, and his expression is level but not, Cullen thinks, unwelcoming. “I am going to the Hanged Man,” he says, and it occurs to Cullen that he does not have to say this, need say nothing at all about his intentions. ‘Out’ would be sufficient. But he is saying it and Cullen does his best to appreciate it for whatever it is meant to be. “There are friends I wish to see there.”

Fenris does not seem the type to have friends, but Cullen supposes he must. “Will you be joining us for dinner?”

“No. I will stay. You need not expect me at breakfast,” he adds, and Cullen remembers how Fenris does not enjoy rising early.

“Then we will dine without you. Or,” and he wavers, because it makes sense that Fenris’ friends are also Carver’s friends, “perhaps Hawke will join you there?”

“I expect not,” Fenris says, and his mouth curves into something that can only be amusement. “He will prefer to have you to himself, tonight.”

What is _that_? It sounds like permission. “I ... forgive me, I do not ...”

His amusement broadens into something more obvious. “Must I say it? Templars are unsubtle creatures, but you have always struck me as a man who knows how to leave a thing unsaid.”

“I am not given to intrigue,” Cullen says, unsure if he is being insulted, but Fenris shakes his head, reaching for his sword and shouldering it with the ease of long practice.

“You, who cannot say a thing outright.” Before Cullen can respond to this, though, Fenris has fixed him with a fierce look. “I am going out. I leave Carver in your hands. Take care of one another, for I will not return until tomorrow. If he is troublesome, remember how obedient he can be when driven to his knees.”

In the heartbeats it takes Cullen to find his breath Fenris is gone, and it is just as well because Cullen is without anything to say in return.

* * *

Cullen has made a sanctuary for himself by the time Carver blunders into his chambers, has taken up a post by the fire with tea and a rather terrible novel. He is up to the part where the dashing Fereldan refugee has cornered his handsome Grey Warden in a closet when Carver slams in, sketches a rough salute, and starts stripping off his armour.

“Evening, ser,” he says, working his buckles loose one by one and grinning in a way that makes Cullen’s pulse jump. “Good day?”

“Very restful,” Cullen tells him, and then, considering that he has spent several hours of the day naked under a blanket with Carver’s lover, blushes a little. Only a little, though; this he considers an improvement. But, on that subject-- “Serrah Fenris will not be joining us for dinner. He has made plans to dine with friends at the Hanged Man tonight.”

Carver stops, blinks a bit, and then his grin comes back in full force. “Oh? Isabela's in port, then."

"The good captain?"

Carver chuckles, shucking one of his gauntlets. "Yeah, that one. Though I'd never have called her 'good'. She'd laugh at me if I did."

Cullen does not know what to make of that. "You seem quite certain it is she."

"Fenris only has three friends." Carver shrugs; this is obviously not something to worry about. "Sebastian's in Starkhaven, and he wouldn't go just for Varric. So. Must be Isabela."

"If I recall correctly, Captain Isabela is your friend also. Do you... If you wish, of course, it would be no trouble to me for you join them." Cullen does not want to say it, but there is a part of him that must do so.

Carver shakes his head, dropping the last piece of his plate onto the stand and starting on the laces of his gambeson. "I'm good. They're just gunna play cards and piss on into the morning. Anyway," and his smile is sweet, but the colour in his cheeks even sweeter. "Now it’s just us, ser. All to ourselves."

_He will prefer to have you to himself, tonight._

Cullen shivers, despite the warmth of the fire. "Indeed."

Stripped down to shirt and trou, Carver comes over, leans a hand on the back of Cullen's chair, and peers at the book still open in Cullen's lap. "Oh, sodding ... Don't read that. Shit'll rot your brain."

"You're familiar with it?" Cullen cannot help but make excuses in the face of Carver's disdain. "Ser Agatha confiscated it from one of the recruits. It is certainly--" lurid, appalling, and somehow appealing, "--sensational."

"All lies," Carver tells him decisively. "Don't believe a fucking word. The sequels are better, but... He makes shit up as he goes along."

Carver looks so thoroughly dismissive that Cullen closes the book and puts it aside. "I had assumed it entirely a fiction, though now you have made me wonder."

"Hah. Don't. Please, if you ever--" but then he stops, and his face is so red and so awkward that Cullen wants to touch him and smooth his awkwardness away.

There is nothing new in that, but the realisation that he may, that Carver might welcome it, is very new. So Cullen lifts a hand to ease his palm along the sleeve of Carver's shirt, and Carver shudders under that hand, fingers tensing on the back of Cullen's chair until his knuckles bloom white. "If I ever?"

Carver has a lip caught in his teeth, chews on it a little, and does not meet Cullen's eye. "If you cared for me, I meant to say." His voice is low and hesitant, and Cullen cannot bear it.

"You must know by now how I do."

This does two things: first, Carver's expression shifts into something warm and soft; second, he sighs, making a helpless shape with his free hand. "You never say, ser."

This seems unfair. "Time after time I have said it. Have you always misunderstood?"

"I never thought you meant it, ser."

This, after so long. Cullen's mouth feels dry, but he licks his lips and tries anyway. "I have always meant it, my knight."

It appears to satisfy. Carver takes a deep breath and leans down far enough to brush Cullen's mouth with a kiss light as spidersilk, and it sends a jolt down Cullen's spine. Mercy, he can hardly breathe, and How can it be like this? the barest caress and he is already helpless.

"Hawke," he says, and Carver smiles, rubbing a thumb up under Cullen's ear.

"So, d'you want--" but he is interrupted by the quiet opening of the door to admit Isaak and the dinner tray.

It takes an effort for Cullen to insist they eat, but it is necessary, both to avoid the reprehensible waste of food and for Cullen to reclaim a little of his shattered equilibrium. Carver rolls his eyes and practically inhales his stew, sucking down a cup of wine and pouring himself another to nurse as he watches Cullen eat. It is remarkably sharp, his attention, and Cullen feels thoroughly examined, which makes him nervous.

He gropes around for conversation to cover his awkwardness. "Did you have much luck at the Keep today?"

Carver nods, slowly, bright eyes still fixed on Cullen's throat, which is quite... "Made a start, anyway."

It is cryptic, and Cullen frowns. "Should I be concerned?"

"Maybe," and he grins over the lip of his cup."Not 'til morning, though. I'll make a report."

"You cannot tell me now?"

Carver gives him a wry look. "We're both out of uniform, ser. Seems inappropriate."

“As though things between us now are not inappropriate,” Cullen says, trying for an equal wryness but he imagines all he sounds is awkward.

Carver chuckles, swirling the wine in his cup. “Always has been, ser. Hasn’t it?”

It sounds casual enough, but Cullen feels there is more behind it than a jest. “Always,” he says, and Carver closes his eyes for a moment, mouth curving into a smile.

“Yeah. Me too.” When he opens his eyes they are so blue and so intense that Cullen forgets to breathe. “So … Fenris _isn’t_ coming back tonight?”

“Would you rather that he did?” It takes an effort to ask, but he must.

“If he _was_ I’d ask if you wanted to play stones. You know, til he got in. But no need to wait up for him, if he’s not.”

Cullen takes a deep breath. “He said we should not expect him.” And then, feeling bold, he adds, “Perhaps I may entertain you, in his absence.”

Carver laughs. Maker, when he does that. His head goes back and he _relaxes_ , and Cullen cannot bear the scraps of his dinner any longer.

" _Hawke_ ," he says. Carver's smile is so _fond_. "Will you?"

"Whatever you _want_ , ser."

And Cullen believes him. "Come to bed with me."

Carver's eyes widen, but then he's leaning over the table, kissing Cullen hard on the mouth a moment before-- "Yeah. Okay."

Carver is first to the room, first to shed his trousers and his shirt, and then he turns to Cullen on bare feet to catch his fingers in Cullen's robes and unwind the cloth from Cullen’s body with quick, neat motions of his hands; he has done this before, has undressed another person often enough that it comes easily to him, now, to do so. Cullen feels a wrench of … it is not jealousy, nor envy, but perhaps regret that the person Carver has practiced on so long was not him.

But when Carver stands back, holding Cullen’s robes, Cullen’s shirt bunched in his arms, and just stares at him, it is difficult to be anything but flattered. 

“You make a spectacle of me,” Cullen says, spreading his hands in a fashion he hopes Carver will find inviting. “A man in trousers and stockings. How foolish.”

Carver shakes his head, dumping Cullen’s clothes on the chest against the wall. “Not foolish. Here--” He unfastens Cullen’s trousers, pulls them down, yanks on the waist of Cullen’s smalls with one hand careful to keep Cullen’s cock out of the way, fingers warm and gentle through the cloth. He has the tip of his tongue caught in his teeth and when he glances up Cullen ducks down to kiss that tip, to draw it into his mouth and catch it with his own.

Carver rewards this boldness with a sound like a bow drawn over silk, and his fingers hitch in the band of Cullen’s smalls while they taste one another. Wine and stew, rather more wine than stew, that is Carver. Cullen imagines himself the same but Carver behaves as though Cullen is sweet, his tongue pushing up against Cullen’s, mouth open and wet to draw him down.

They kiss; Cullen is lost. How good it is.

Carver pulls away, pulls down Cullen's smalls, his trousers, kneeling at his feet to get them off. He makes Cullen step out of his stockings, takes them too, puts them aside, and then he looks up from the floor, eyes bright and blue as a Fereldan summer sky. "Ser," he says, with such reverence that Cullen finds himself humbled by it. "Will you let me?" 

Cullen thinks he knows what, but he can't be sure until one of Carver's hands steals up to tease Cullen's half-hard cock, Carver licking his lips in a fashion that Cullen finds too appealing.

"You can finish in my mouth, if you like. Maker, ser, let me _please_ you."

Ah, it is a perfect and precious thing. "Hawke," he says, but, no. " _Carver_. You please me by your very existence." And he knots a hand in Carver's hair, watching the way Carver's eyes flutter closed, how he arches up to put his mouth to Cullen's hip. "I will give you anything you wish, whatever pleases _you_."

Carver laughs, a low breathy sound. "My Captain." His throat bobs and his eyes come open. "I wanna suck you down. I want you in my mouth, ser, can I have that?"

It feels like benevolence to say, "You may," and the way Carver takes him in, swallows him, and the way his eyes open up, how he _moans_ , makes it in no way profane. His mouth working, his tongue hot on Cullen's cock, looking up as he does so with dew on his lashes, ah, how _good_ it is. 

But he is kneeling there on the stone flags, and Cullen (while the world vanishes to nothing beyond the glory of Carver's mouth) wants more of him.

"Enough," he begs, and Carver sucks his way free, panting and red-lipped, his eyes wet, his mouth _wet_ , and Cullen ... "On the bed, if you will."

Carver scrambles up, freeing himself from his smalls and kicking them across the floor. "Yeah. _Yeah_ , ser. Tell me how you want me." 

He says, cock hanging heavy between his thighs, so dark and thick, and Cullen does not know.

_If Fenris were here..._

But Carver catches his hand, pulls him close, mouth open against Cullen's throat, and the sounds he makes, as he makes free with Cullen's skin, as his hands come down behind to drag Cullen up against his lap. Then--

"Ser, will you have me? Andraste’s mercy, I want you to."

But all Cullen wants is-- "May I have more of _this_?"

Carver nods, eyes dark as blueberries. "Whatever you want, ser."

They tumble onto the bed, Carver below and Cullen spread out above, smoothing his hands over warm and welcoming flesh, palming every inch of Carver he can reach. Mercy, how beautiful his limbs, how firm his muscles, how incongruously soft his skin. And how hard he is, pressed needily against Cullen himself, how his thighs spread like an invitation.

He kisses like he spars, eager and willing and determined, with so little mind for defending himself that Cullen feels driven to breach his defences, behoven to, as though it would be a sin to waste it. He leaves himself open; Cullen comes in to catch his teeth in Carver's skin, feels Carver shudder beneath him, hears the hitch of his breath as he curls his hands around Cullen's shoulders and holds on. Maker, how blessed he is, how fortunate, to be permitted safe harbour here.

"Ser," Carver groans, hooking a leg over Cullen's hip. " _Ser_..."

"Let me touch you," Cullen pleads and, unexpectedly, Carver sighs, hands traversing the length of Cullen's back to gather in the hollow above his hips. 

"Anywhere," he says, and then he swallows, blinking fast. "Just anywhere."

Cullen wants _everywhere_ , so he strokes Carver from throat to belly, feeling out the shape of him, letting his thumbs dally in the dips and valleys of Carver's form, and it is such a perfect beautiful thing. _He_ is, all of him, and if Cullen used to look at him and see Solona looking back he does so no longer. She was a fantasy. Carver, by Andraste's grace, is reality. Mercy, the way he smiles when he catches Cullen looking at him, how his smile turns wicked, how he twists and bucks, dragging the length of his body against Cullen's, and the length of his cock against Cullen's also.

"Ugh, ser, I," and there, a quick lick-of-the-lips again. "Just, if you'd..."

So Cullen does, knows where it's wanted, where they both want, snares Carver's cock in his hand and caresses him as though he is exactly as precious as he is. "Like so?"

"Mmmm, yeah."

Carver finds Cullen with his own hand, tugs him firm and sure, mouth open, gasping, while Cullen tries to please him and finds himself pleased in turn. Oh, his hand, oh, his mouth, oh, oh _oh_...

"Uh, uh, yeah, oh fuck, just ... _just_ like that."

The sound of him is more wonderful than any recitation of the Chant, and the reverence he feels, how wonderful this is, is more than anything he has ever felt in the Chantry. Is it blasphemy? It cannot be, not when they both want this, Maker thank, Maker bless, _Oh Maker, hear my cry_...

Carver bucks, lip caught in his teeth, and when he begs to be allowed Cullen breathes a 'yes' into his skin, and is rewarded with the hot throb of come over his fingers, the wail Carver makes in his extremity, and that is enough for him to spend himself on Carver's belly, shuddering and helpless in the aftermath.

Cullen fumbles to a stop, panting desperately against Carver's shoulder, slumped over him and _useless_. And Carver groans, rough and deep, one hand tugging Cullen down until their hips are flush and sticky against one another.

" _Maker_ ," he breathes. "Fucking _void_ , ser."

It is a sentiment with which Cullen can agree wholeheartedly, but all he can say is, "Mugh..."

Carver chuckles, and pats Cullen's behind. "You all right?"

"Y-yes, I believe so." Cullen reluctantly removes himself, shoves himself up onto shaking legs to totter to the vanity, washing himself and rinsing the cloth before bringing it back to wipe Carver clean. Carver grins at him, stroking Cullen's shoulder with firm, blunt fingers, lazy and sated. It's beautiful. Cullen leans down to kiss his salty brow, rids himself of the cloth, and tugs the covers out from under Carver to wrap them both up safe and warm.

Carver seems to have no interest in being either, however; he pulls the covers down again to admire Cullen, now softening, lain out on the bed.

"Love your cock," he says, and he sounds almost shy but the way he reaches for the part in question, the way he strokes it is bold, and the way his eyes cut up to glisten at Cullen is nothing less than cheeky. "Such a good one."

Cullen cannot help how his face floods with heat. "Is it ... I have never thought it, ah, excessive."

"Not _excessive_. But ... pretty good." And the way he laughs, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, makes Cullen almost certain that 'pretty' here means 'very'. 

He tucks up against Carver's flesh, curling about him, and buries his nose in Carver's neck. "Good enough?"

" _More_ than, Maker _fuck_." Carver comes up out of his nest of pillows to catch Cullen's mouth and suck on it. "Mmmm. Ser. You feel good, in my hand or, um, anywhere. Always thought you would," and the colour in his cheeks is flattering but also...

"Did you think of me so?" Cullen wishes he could take it back at once, because ... well, _he_ has thought of Carver so, has imagined him strung out in his bed, but never, _never_ had he ever imagined anything so glorious as this. Maker, he had only ever fantasised a few kisses, the impropriety of hands going where'er they willed, quiet caresses that might draw from him certain impure responses, but never the enormity of _this_.

"Are you _kidding_ me? Fuck, I did. You ... even a touch, under my robes. Just a, a hand of yours on my skin, I--" He breaks off, turning his head away, but his neck is so red. How could _this_ embarrass him, with the weight of the things he has been bold enough to do? "Just wanted you, however I could get you. Never really thought I might, though."

Cullen kisses his neck, and when he gets a whimper in response he kisses it again, eases his tongue against Carver's skin. "You may have all you want of me."

Carver's silent a while, but then-- "What if it's a lot, what I want?"

"If it goes not against my duty to the Maker nor to the Gallows, then you may have it all."

It's only the truth, but Carver seems ruined by it, his expression contorting into something like pain but different, less and also more. "Can I have you both? Fenris doesn't mind, y'know. He already ... we talked. He," and he shakes his head, still blushing like a sunrise, "he said I could. Said we _could_ , ser, said he wanted to, and ... and he was right, wasn't he?" He blinks, eyelashes black against his skin. "Isn't it good? With us all?"

It is. "Yes," Cullen tells him, but still. "It is ... unnatural."

"Un _usual_ , maybe, but unnatural?" He blinks, coming up on his elbows to frown. " _They_ say it's unnatural between men, but," and he shakes his head, a worried light coming into his eyes. "Never felt unnatural to me. Just feels good. Maker, say something, I can't if you don't--"

" _You_ feel good," Cullen tells him, hoping to make him understand. "And right. And righteous."

Carver relaxes, one hand dragging the covers over and coming up to buss Cullen's chin. "And, with Fenris?"

He sounds so concerned, and Cullen thinks of how he had missed Fenris before, had wished for Fenris to guide him in this.

"Ser?"

Such blue eyes. Solona's eyes, save for the colour of them. Cullen has been in love with these eyes longer than he dares remember. But they are not hers, no, have not been for such a long time. "I have no real objection to Fenris," he admits, unsure of how to go on.

"But _some_. I get it, I reckon." Carver chews his lip, a hand smoothing along Cullen's flank beneath the covers. "Fenris ... when we were, uh, split from one another, he ... with Isabela. They were together, a few times." Carver doesn't seem unhappy about this, only thoughtful. "And if he wanted, you know, both of us with her then, then I'd do it. For him. I mean, it's Isabela, she's," and he shrugs, mouth curving into a saucy shape. "You've _met_ Isabela."

Cullen has nothing to say, so he says nothing, just coils Carver in his arms and tries not to anticipate where this is going.

"So I'd do it, but I'd rather not." He takes a breath, eyes coming up to meet Cullen's, full of uncertainty. "I don't love her."

Oh. Cullen tries not to take too much from it, tries not to think, tries ... "But if he wanted, you would."

"Yeah. Would have. And I think ... that's how it is for him, about you. Plus, you look pretty good naked, ser." He grins, and Cullen is struck again by how much 'pretty' probably means 'very', despite how it wars with what he believes of himself. "So. I figure you feel similar. About him."

Does he? Cullen cannot be sure, and the comfort of Fenris' hands upon him is quite ... "No. No, it is different."

Carver looks up at him, worried and worrisome, and Cullen wants to kiss it away.

"I find him ... He has been very kind to me, all things considered."

Carver snorts, fingers finding a home against Cullen's side. "He's been a right cock," he says, clearly not upset by this. "But he meant well, I guess. So if you want, fuck, I don't know." He blinks, sits up, but his hands are still touching Cullen, still concerned with him. "I want to. With you. Maker fuck, I've always wanted, and now I've got Fenris, _and_ you, and I want..." He takes a breath, steels himself, blue eyes like crystal reflecting in a setting, and... "Can I have this? Tell me now if I can't, tell me you don't want to and I'll let it go, ser. I won't bother you again, though I," and he breaks off, and if Cullen knew him better he might think him distraught, or might not, he does not know.

He _thinks_ , though, remembers how Fenris reprimanded them both for their foolishness only this morning, and ... He knows, if he is honest with himself, how much he does want. "Carver," he says, and this is it, this is _important_. "I will do any thing I can, in conscience, to give you any happiness. And, with regard to Serrah Fenris," _Serrah_ , because it too is important, "he is also ... he is, in his way, dear to me." Has become so, in the space of a day, as an extension of Carver and also in himself. "I do not know how to go on in this. Only that I _love_ you, and--"

" _Ser!_ " 

Carver stares so and Cullen feels wretched in the face of his regard. _Hawke, Hawke,_ Carver _, if you would only, though I do not deserve it..._

But then Carver kisses him, finding Cullen's mouth and pouring himself into it. Cullen cannot resist, can only give himself up in equal measure, and hope that Carver understands.

All he can say aloud, though, is, "Must you ‘ser’ me so?"

"You’re my captain,” Carver protests, sounding heartfelt and young, but he grins all the same. “ _My_ captain. Don’t like to ‘ser’ anybody else, that’s you. That’s always you.”

It's too much. "Carver," Cullen breathes, feeling his heart come up to choke him. "Maker, how I would, for you, in every thing."

_Do you not know?_

But Carver must because he leans down to catch Cullen's mouth again, sealing himself like a promise, and there is nothing Cullen has ever wanted for himself so much as this.

Exquisite. Everything. How grateful he is. _O my Maker, thank-you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but I still think about this story far too much to let it die. Plus, I promised a happily-ever-after and I mean to deliver.


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, the tranquillity of this fantasy he has made for himself shatters into pieces.

Agatha bangs on his door; she has enough respect to wait for Cullen to find his trousers and meet her in his sitting-room, and he tries not to blush over how thoroughly caught-out he is, roused from an enseamed bed to meet his responsibilities. It is earlier than he likes, but late for the Gallows; already the first bell has rung and Agatha has clearly read over his missives.

"Ser," she says, competent and stoic in the face of his dismay. "Word's come down from the Keep that they want to parley and," and she glances up, sees what must be Carver over Cullen's shoulder, and Cullen can only hope he is in some way dressed, "that they accept our conditions."

"We have conditions?" Cullen looks back; Carver has found his shirt and some trousers but he is rumpled and barefoot, and the look on his face is hounded, as though he too has been caught off guard. "Carver, do you--?"

Carver nods, tucks his hands behind his back, his expression more serious than Cullen has seen from him since he returned to the Gallows. "If you'll have my report now, ser?"

Cullen stares at him, shakes his head -- more to rid himself of cobwebs than anything else -- and nods. "Now seems appropriate, Hawke."

So Carver takes a breath, ignores Agatha, and tells him.

It's ... mad. A madness indeed but within the madness there is a plan.

"Can you vouch for your cousin?" Cullen asks, and Carver makes such a face.

"Enough, I reckon. Ser, I never said I spoke for the Gallows," and he seems so sincere. "Just made a suggestion. Sounds like Bran wants to run with it, though."

They have very little time after that, just enough for Cullen to find his robes, his armour, and swallow a cup of tea in lieu of breakfast, and then--

Cullen has never been fond of the Keep. It is too ostentatious, though less so now than it has ever been in Cullen's knowledge. Perhaps the seneschal and Guard-Captain Hendyr together have made it so -- it is still very fine, but severe in a way that Cullen approves of. No waste. Everything to the good. Still, it makes him uncomfortable, knowing how much grain the gold in _this_ statue would purchase, how many sacks of salt could be traded for _that_ vase.

When he walks into the throne room he is surprised by the crowd. Bran he expected, the Guard-Captain, Lady Harimann and her brother, the Comte and Comtess de Launcet also, but more than half the nobles of Kirkwall are gathered here, and half of _those_ are on the verge of rioting. Cullen is suddenly glad Agatha insisted in bringing a full platoon; they may very well be needed to keep the peace.

"Ah, Knight-Commander." The seneschal manages to make it sound like an insult, but Cullen is by now used to this and ignores it. He can feel Carver bristle at his shoulder, though, loyal as a hound. "And young Lord Amell. Do come in."

" _Lord_ Amell?" The Comtess gives Carver a particularly Orlesian sneer. "There is no 'Lord Amell'."

"Ah, Comtess," and it is gratifying that Bran makes that too sound like an insult, "legally, yes there is. The late Lady Leandra Amell left a comprehensive will. It was sadly not enacted at the time of her death, however it still holds. If you have anything to add, Lord Amell?"

Carver squares his shoulders, chin going up. "Mother left the title to Garrett, then me. But Garrett's a mage. So it's mine."

Because mages cannot inherit titles nor property. It is _legal_ , but a legality stretched thin because Garrett Hawke may be a mage but Carver Hawke is a _Templar_.

"There. Everyone happy?" Bran casts a tight smile about the room. "So, there we have Lord Amell, a _fine young man_ of illustrious family, well known to you all. And here I have a letter from Sebastian of Starkhaven, offering an alliance with Kirkwall, under the condition that we select a viscount. He has made several suggestions as to candidates. Most notably, Knight-Commander Cullen."

Several of the nobles protest at once and Cullen is unsurprised. Meredith had very nearly been Viscount in her last days, and how many of Kirkwall's gentry opposed that? Also, it is in Cullen's opinion inappropriate for a Templar to have so much power, no matter the good to which he might put it. 

So he shakes his head. "I must decline. It would not serve the interests of Kirkwall."

Bran smiles very thinly. "If you are certain, Knight-Commander? Very well. The Prince of Starkhaven's first choice, in any case, was his friend Lord Amell."

The protest this time is muted, confused, because where the objection to Cullen himself comes in part from his status as a Templar and in part from his Fereldan blood, Carver is technically Kirkwallian, the (however unexpected) scion of a great and noble house of the Free Marches, and his friendship with Prince Sebastian would be a valuable asset. Not to mention the fact that his brother was (is?), after all, their Champion. But he is still a Templar, and this seems first amongst their objections, or at least loudest.

Bran raises a hand for quiet. "Then, my lords and ladies, if Lord Amell were to renounce his commission, you would have no objection to installing an Amell as Viscount?"

There are still _some_ objections, but these are small, shouted down by a few, most notably the Lady Harimann, who seems particularly invested in this. When they finally quiet, the seneschal turns to Carver, bowing to him in a way that seems to make Carver uncomfortable, as it should.

"My lord," he says, and the twist of Carver's mouth is familiar and oddly endearing. "I offer you the seat of the Viscount of Kirkwall. Will you take it?"

Carver sighs, setting his feet. "No. Thanks."

The protest this time has an edge of betrayal to it, and Cullen thinks they may turn nasty in the face of this rejection. Nobles, no different from the common folk they consider themselves so far removed from. He glances back over his shoulder, catches Agatha's eye, and she nods but holds her ground.

Bran sighs dramatically. "Oh," he says, purposefully mocking. "Whatever shall we do?" And then, "Ah," as a commotion in the entryway attracts his attention, "Serrah Amell, thank-you for joining us. Late though you are."

The young woman is pretty, wry of face, and accompanied by a brace of men and women who are quite obviously armed and dangerous in the way of the streets. She moves like the Coterie rogue that she is, sauntering in and eyeballing the crowd like a pickpocket scouting marks. 

"Hullo, Bran," she says, obviously unconcerned. "Sorry. Got caught up with _things_. You know how it is."

"Indeed." How much dissatisfaction he manages to put in the one word, but he gestures to the crowd. "Lords and ladies of Kirkwall, let me make known to you Serrah Charade Amell."

She comes up, smirks in a way that is unbearably familiar, and fixes her gaze on Carver expectantly.

"Cousin," Carver says, offering her his hand, solemn for once.

She takes it, grinning like... Well, just like an Amell. "Hullo, cousin. Good day?"

Carver's mouth twitches into a barely suppressed smile. "We'll see." And then he clears his throat. "I don't want to be Lord Amell. I'm happy as I am, just a knight of the Order." He glances up at Bran, and the seneschal nods, and Cullen knows that Carver has been schooled in what to say. "So, before you all, I abdicate my title and all the chattels thereof in favour of my cousin, Charade Amell. And I nominate her for Viscount, in the grace of Andraste." 

The young woman, Charade, tips her chin up, and she is in that moment regal as a queen. "I accept."

The response is silence, for a heartbeat, and then it erupts into chaos.

It takes all day to resolve, with arguments given on both sides (the detractors neatly undermined by Bran's cutting and dismissive commentary) both eloquent and simply enthusiastic. Cullen stands to one side, offering comment where necessary, deflecting no few small criticisms, but largely his part is confined to observation. Carver seems to have no such reticence, and at one point manages to entangle himself in a heated argument with a minor lord Cullen does not recognise, over a _mine_ of all things, but he does not draw his sword and manages somehow not to curse the man into the sea. Bran has food brought in, chairs for some of the older and the more prestigious nobles, and Guard-Captain Hendyr organises a rotation with Agatha for the Templars on duty here to head down to the guardsmen's mess for refreshment.

At the end of it the consensus is clear: Charade Amell, now Lady Amell, is acceptable, and then (as they do in fact have a quorum for voting) she is named Viscount Amell.

There are dozens of documents to be signed. Carver bears it with a bad grace, impatiently scrawling over documents without reading them despite Bran's caustic cautions -- Cullen firmly takes several from him, examining them before submitting them for Carver's hasty signature, but they seem fair enough, deals worked out in advance and truly nothing he would not have argued himself, in Carver's position.

Still, for all that, Carver is exuberant, reining it in best he can but obviously so when Cullen throws his conditional support behind Carver's cousin. She has already agreed that the Keep will supply the Gallows, whispers it again to Carver in a quiet moment. Cullen is satisfied, despite his misgivings; this cousin of Carver's is an unknown quantity, Coterie as she is, mysterious as she is.

But when the tumult has died down, Carver presents her to Cullen, her hand in his hand, and she stands like a _lady_ , graceful and amused by it all.

"Lady Amell," Carver says, and they both grin like naughty children, "my Knight-Commander Cullen."

"All honour to you, Viscountess," Cullen says, bowing over her hand, but he sees her frown a very little. "Do you dislike your new title?"

"I think I prefer 'Viscount'," she says and, ah, how she looks, so Carver-like that Cullen cannot help but smile back at her. "What d'you reckon, Carvs?"

Carver laughs, too loud but entirely real, and he sketches a bow that suits him very ill. "Whatever my lady Viscount wants, I guess."

She snorts, such an unladylike thing to do, and smacks Carver on the shoulder. "This was your sodding idea, cousin. Don't get formal on me now, I bloody well _need_ you."

"Don't pretend you don't like it," Carver scoffs, shoving her back just the same. It is inappropriate in the extreme, but Cullen thinks ... this is the second-to-last of Carver's family, and if the haphazard explanation Carver rushed through on the way to the Keep this morning has any truth to it, Carver is the unexpected cousin she never knew she could have. Perhaps camaraderie between them can only be a good thing. And she _has_ promised the Gallows funds, in exchange for the military resource that is a fully equipped garrison of trained templars.

One thing remains to be asked, however, and Cullen is the only one apparently willing to ask it. "The Coterie have been making it difficult for merchants and traders to operate in the city," he says to her, observing the way her eyes narrow and the corner of her mouth curls up. "Without supplies, _at reasonable rates_ , it will matter very little who sits in the Viscount's seat. The people will riot. While there are ... martial alternatives to be considered, I will not support a government that willfully starves its people."

She regards him for a long moment, and there is something in her eyes that reminds him not of Carver but of _Garrett_ Hawke. Then she _smiles_ , and he blinks very hard to rid himself of the vision of that smile, above a set of Fereldan Circle robes so long ago.

"The Coterie isn't, what's the word? All one thing. There's factions, you know. Some of, uh, _them_ still want to tear through anything that gets in their way, fattening their purses as they go. And some are pretty sure we'll run out of coin that way, if Kirkwall's picked clean. So," and she licks her lips, clearly excited by the prospect, "there's a long game to play, here. Supporting trade and suppressing the greedy is in everyone's best interests. Don't you think, Knight-Commander?"

She's going to be good at this, he realises. He can only hope for the best. "We shall see, Viscount Amell."

Eventually, Carver gives way to the gaggle of nobles vying for a chance to flatter their new viscount, and then Cullen takes leave of them, though not before Bran has managed to extract from him an appointment on the morrow to discuss further particulars.

"All good, ser?" Carver asks on the steps of the Keep.

Cullen shakes his head, though he does not mean it in the negative. "Astoundingly, yes. Though I wish you had seen fit to take me into your confidence sooner. Perhaps this could have been better planned."

"I was _going_ to," Carver protests, though he has the good grace to appear repentant about it. "I got distracted."

Cullen _does not blush_. He clears his throat, instead, and orders his knights back to the Gallows.

Fenris is waiting for them when they return, pacing Cullen's parlour in full armour, sword still strapped to his back. He jerks when the door opens, hesitates only a moment, and then crosses the floor with a speed and grace that takes Cullen's breath away.

And he is angry.

" _You!_ " It comes out a snarl, and then both his hands come up, curled into dangerous fists. "We agreed you would _wait_."

Carver seems stunned, but then he spreads his hands, with a sheepish expression that makes him look about five years younger than Cullen knows him to be. "Didn't have any choice. Bran forced my hand."

Fenris does not seem to accept this as reason enough. He glowers, those fists shaking by his thighs, and Cullen cannot help but feel intimidated by the threat of death coiled in his fingers. "It was reckless to allow him to do so. I should have been _with_ you."

"It worked out okay," Carver protests. "No-one got stabbed, or strung up. Everything's _fine_."

Fenris' lip curls with disdain, or maybe simply more anger. "It could easily have been _not_."

"The Knight-Commander was there," Carver says, glancing at Cullen and then back at his elven lover. "Took a whole bunch of arguing and all, but we sorted it. Charade's the sodding Viscount, the Gallows won't run dry over the winter, and I don't have to do anything with Garrett's bloody estate. Couldn't be better."

Fenris looks to _Cullen_ for no immediately obvious reason, eyebrows up in a question.

Cullen hesitates. Does he want confirmation? "All is well as could be hoped for, given the circumstances. I have no serious objection to Ser Carver's actions, however ... unexpected."

Fenris blinks, and then he seems to settle, resting back on his heels and unfurling his fists. "Very well. Then I take it we have no further business in Kirkwall."

 _Oh_. Cullen takes a breath but has no idea what to do with it and simply lets it go, though the tightening of his chest leaves him choked and hopeless.

"I ... guess not," Carver says, slow and awkward. Cullen does not look at him, _cannot_ look at him, and does not want to see whatever is in his face just now. Or ever, if he is honest with himself. "But--"

"Then I will begin packing. Isabela will take us on the tide, if we wish it. If you are still determined to revisit Ferelden."

 _Blowing out on the wind, and you will never see them again._ Cullen inhales, exhales, tries not to feel anything at all though ... though he feels all of it.

Agatha was wrong. It is _worse_ , now.

Fenris looks from one of them to the other, and then he walks out of the parlour, closing the door of Cullen's guest room behind him.

The silence stretches, deafening. Cullen tries to find something, anything to say, but all of it is useless. He should say something. He should say ... he should tell Carver he is free to go, that Cullen has no claim to him and that ... that he does not ... that he will not stand in his way, if this is what he wants. That is what he _should_ say.

"Ser," Carver says, but he stops there, shifting his feet restlessly, and Cullen is struck hard by the memory of how restlessly he had stood guard in Cullen's office as a recruit, trying and failing to be still and silent and watchful, but trying nevertheless. And, later, the junior knight who looked up at him with such _eyes_ , smiled for him so sheepishly, riddled with self-consciousness and self-doubt, but always, always _his_ knight. "Ser, I don't--"

" _No_." It takes a moment for Cullen to realise that that was _him_ , his own voice, and it sounded so firm, so very sure. "No, I cannot ... I won't."

Carver makes a wretched noise. "Ser?"

He has no right to ... but no, he has every right. "Carver. I _won't_." He looks up. Carver has so much awful resignation in his face, as though he has already said and it is already done, and Cullen simply _cannot let this stand_. "You told me that you wanted this." He takes a breath, feeling bold and reckless because if he does not speak now then he will never have another chance. "Fenris, also, said that there was nothing here I stood to lose that I could not keep instead. And so you see I cannot simply let you go. If you were mine, I would challenge any man or woman who tried to take you from me. But if you are not mine, then ... then tell me so now, and I will stand aside." He reaches out, his hand shaking hard enough that his gauntlet rattles. "But please, if I may, I would keep you."

Carver stares, wide-eyed, and that is not horror is his face, nor shame, nor regret, only something Cullen thinks might be the thing he has always wanted from Carver. And then Carver has Cullen's hand firmly in his own, squeezing until the leather and metal groans in his grip. "I was gunna say, 'I don't want to go'," he confesses, stepping in to bring Cullen's hand to his chest. "That's all I had, but," and he worries his lip between his teeth for a moment. "You said it better. Ser." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever he means to say next. " _Cullen_. Can I stay? Can _we_ stay?"

It is easy, then, to say, "Yes. Of course. You must, please."

Carver lets his breath go, breathing out the stiffness of his shoulders, though he still holds Cullen's hand so tightly. "Thank the Maker." And then he smiles, a painful smile that strikes Cullen somewhere beneath his ribs. "We don't have anywhere else to go, anyway."

"You would not return to Ferelden?"

"I thought, if there was nowhere else, but ... Everyone I loved in Ferelden is dead. Everyone who's still alive is right here." He makes it sound so simple. 

"Then stay with me," Cullen says, begs, though he feels no shame in it, not now that he knows, yes, this he can have. "And never leave."

Carver sighs, leans in to press a kiss to Cullen's jaw. "Never, without your permission." He only stays there a moment, close enough for Cullen to feel the warmth of him, before backing away. "Come on," he says, tugging Cullen's hand. "Best break it to Fenris."

Cullen wonders if Fenris will disapprove, but how could he? This is in so many ways his doing, how could he not be pleased with the fruit of his labours? But he does not know Fenris, though he thinks, perhaps, he is beginning to.

When Carver opens the door, Fenris is on the bed, propped on a nest of pillows against the headboard. He has a book on his knees, some cheap paperback confiscated from an apprentice, and he looks up at them without an ounce of surprise. He smirks, closes the book, puts it aside and keeps on smirking.

"Well?"

Carver looks disgruntled. "You're not even pretending to pack."

Fenris shifts a shoulder. "No. I would have begun, though, were it needed. I wagered against it."

"And if you'd been wrong?" Carver lets go of Cullen's hand to plant his gauntlets on his hips. It's such obvious posturing, but Cullen thinks it charming, in its way. "What then?"

"I would have intervened. Fortunate are we in that it was not necessary."

Carver scowls at him. Fenris stretches lazily, and then he swings his legs over the side of the bed, begins the labour of shedding his armour. Carver's scowl darkens dangerously. "What are you doing?"

When Fenris looks up he makes a passable imitation of innocence, but Cullen can detect the smug satisfaction in him still. "Are we not staying?"

"You're fucking unbelievable," Carver growls, but he has his hands on Fenris' buckles, snapping them open with the speed of familiarity. "You _did_ this. On _purpose_."

"Yes," Fenris says simply, glancing at Cullen. "You're welcome."

Cullen does not have it in him to be affronted, nor indeed anything but grateful. "Thank-you."

"You should _apologise to the Knight-Commander_." Carver says it crossly, his brow still screwed down in a frown, but Cullen suspects this is a pantomime.

"It would be a hollow apology." Fenris chuckles at Carver's dire expression. "Is there anything you regret? We are here, as you wanted, with your Captain -- ah, your _Commander_ \-- as you wanted. I cannot say myself sorry for an outcome so satisfactory as this."

Carver takes the last piece of Fenris' armour and sets it down -- gently, though his jaw is still tight and tense, and he looks mutinous enough that Cullen half expects him to throw the thing out the open window. "You _knew_ , though, and you never said anything to me. And then you get all ... all _this_ when you fucking _knew_ \--"

But Fenris has his bare palms on Carver's face, up under his jaw, and his expression is one Cullen understands, one he has feared lay naked on his own face so many times when looking at Carver. "Forgive me. I have only wanted the best for you. For all of us."

Carver exhales hard, but his frown softens all the same. "Yeah, all right. I'll forgive you. Eventually."

"And how can I make it up to you?" Fenris asks, voice gone low and deep in a way that is certainly very ...

Carver hesitates, and then the two of them look at _Cullen_ , blue eyes and green both equally ... something.

Fenris' mouth broadens, and he lifts a hand, long lyrium-streaked fingers beckoning. "Knight-Commander? If you will?"

Well. What else can he do?

* * *

The month following Viscount Amell's investiture is busy, meetings at the Keep interspersed with logistics meetings with the quartermaster to manage the lengthy list of absolutely necessary and less absolutely but still important requisitions. This Cullen resents, has always resented, but has always felt part of his role in the Gallows. He works long hours, comes to bed weary, and that is when he discovers Fenris has a remarkable talent for massage, one which he has apparently been imparting to Carver, and between the two of them they can easily reduce Cullen to a helpless groaning puddle of frail mortal flesh. And then they do it _again_ , albeit in an altogether different manner.

He cannot say that is in any way a bad thing, but the part of him that still fears they will leave is cautious of becoming too used to it, in case this luxury is taken suddenly from him. Still, for now he enjoys it, and enjoys the knowledge that, no matter how late he comes to it, his bed will for now be warm and welcoming.

There's talk about the Gallows, of course. Agatha comes of an evening to tell it to him, and in anyone else he would condemn it as a predilection for gossip, but from her it is, largely, just humour at his expense. Rochard is more or less discreet himself, muttering wry Orlesian things out of the corner of his mouth when there is no-one else to hear it.

It is of no matter. Recruits gossip and officers are amused by it and this is the way things are.

But it is all of it exhausting, and halfway through the month Cullen finds himself checking his schedule and despairing that his next free day is so very far off. Mercy, how did Meredith manage all this? 

"She didn't," Agatha says shortly, the one time he bemoans it in her presence. "She had you. And, no disrespect to the dead, but ... Meredith didn't manage her part all that well, at the end."

He forgives her the slight to his Commander, and tries not to worry that he will fail Meredith's memory, or the best parts of her memory, through his own incompetence.

Carver settles in easily once he's on the permanent duty roster. He has short, heated discussions with Rochard about the juniors, the recruits, a few of the senior knights, and whether or not they're getting good use out of the Senior Enchanters. Cullen walks into a staff meeting late because Bran kept him overlong at the Keep that day, only to find Carver in a shouting match with First Enchanter Edith. Over _apprentices_ , of all things. Carver wants to tell the senior apprentices what to expect in a Harrowing; Edith wants to abolish Harrowings altogether.

"And replace them with _what?_ " Carver makes fists of his hands, wild eyed and at the end of his tether. "You can't just ... and what about the junior knights? We all know Harrowings are for them too. We all know--"

"Hunter-Lieutenant," Rochard says warningly, but Carver ignores him.

"--we make them do it until they kill someone, because how else can we _know_?"

Cullen clears his throat. Carver goes pale, salutes him, and then turns his head away insolently, as though he expects to be punished and is ashamed of himself.

"Pardon me for interrupting," Cullen says levelly. Carver goes pink, then, which Cullen supposes is better. "I believe I have the salient details, however, and I tend to agree. The Harrowing serves a vital function, for both the Circle and the Order. But," he adds, seeing Edith open her mouth, "perhaps there is a better way. First Enchanter, I would appreciate it if you would set aside some time to consider alternatives. Ser Carver will, of course, act as liaison to the Order in this. As he is so obviously invested."

The both look at him as though this is a punishment, but it doesn't take long before he catches them lunching together, arguing companionably about the details but clearly well on the way to an actual proposal.

Good. That's good. Anything that makes Carver want to stay.

Fenris, meanwhile, spends his time reading slowly through the Circle library. He intrigues the apprentices and the Harrowed mages both; the former tend to stare at him but the latter are always confronting him with intrusive questions about his markings, about his background, about Tevinter.

Fenris puts them off with flat unwelcoming stares and, much to Cullen's relief, by simply walking away from them, usually while they're still talking, and refusing to acknowledge their attempts to rekindle discussion.

It worries Cullen, though. One morning, when Carver has gone down to the training yard to 'beat some sense into the useless baggages that call themselves recruits around here', Cullen asks with some trepidation if it is at all inconvenient.

Fenris snorts. It still amazes Cullen how attractively a man can do that. "It is. However, it is also entertaining to ignore them."

"You have said before how much you distrust mages," Cullen says carefully. Fenris is still so strange to him, he does not know how to proceed without causing offence. "I do not want you endure anything ... unpleasant, in that regard."

"They question and question," Fenris says, idly stroking the lip of his cup as he lingers over his breakfast. "And then I ignore them and they turn red as beets in their indignation. I would know if any of them intended to use magic on me. The lyrium," he says by way of explanation, lifting a hand and grimacing at it. "And if they did I would have no hesitation in ending them. But they do not. So, when they provoke me I find it entertaining to provoke them in return."

This is not particularly reassuring, so Cullen has a quiet word with Edith to warn the mages _not_ to bother Fenris, and especially not under any circumstances to use magic on him.

Toward the end of the month, though, when Cullen has collapsed like a dead weight on his mattress for the third night in a row, he wakes to find Fenris sitting naked at the end of his bed, observing him silently.

Cullen blinks, still bleary, still unused to having company in the mornings. "Serrah?"

"You work yourself to the bone," Fenris says flatly. He does not look pleased about it. "The tiredness hangs beneath your eyes. Everyone sees it, and they are all too used to it to concern themselves. Or they do not believe you will mind them, if they should do so. I do not have that luxury."

"What are you getting at?" Cullen asks, not quite secure in the knowledge that he may directly question Fenris on such matters but growing used to it all the same.

Fenris scowls at him, another thing he is growing used to. "You have the whole of the Gallows at your disposal. There must be someone you can rely upon to ease your burden. I suggest you assign them to the task."

And that is that, it seems. Fenris drops the matter, and for most of a day Cullen believes the matter is done.

But at the end of the day, instead of Agatha accosting him with confiscated spirits and an entertaining recital of the vagaries of their recruits, it is Carver who finds him in his office, well past the dinner hour.

"Hawke," he says, surprised. Carver salutes, his face stern in the lamp-light. Cullen takes a breath, nods, and drops into the informality of their quarters with an ease that surprises him, even now. "Carver. Is something amiss?"

"You need a Knight-Captain," Carver says bluntly.

Cullen knows this, but he has been so reluctant, and is still reluctant to name someone when ... well. "Are you volunteering yourself for promotion?"

Carver's expression is priceless, shock and dismay written in every line of his face. "Can people do that?"

"It's unusual, to say the least. Certainly, it does not follow protocol."

Oddly, this seems to relax him. "Oh. Good. No, then. I can't be your Knight-Captain. I haven't been here long enough and, anyway," and it surprises Cullen to see the colour rise in his cheeks, "people would talk."

"I believe you once claimed not to care what people thought," Cullen says, though he says it gently and is rewarded with one of Carver's hesitant smiles.

"Not about me. But I guess I do care what people think of you, and your command." He shrugs, stiff and awkward but pretending to nonchalance, and Cullen wants very much to go over there and cup Carver's jaw in his palm and kiss him until the awkwardness goes away.

But. He doesn't. This is neither the time for place for that. "Then, what do you suggest?"

"I reckon you already have someone in mind," Carver says, chin going up, blue eyes catching the light and so serious. "So, I reckon you should give it them. And ... there's something I want for me, if you'll let me. If I haven't worn you out for favours."

Cullen nods, willing to listen, and what Carver tells him makes so much sense he feels he ought to kick himself for not thinking of it sooner.

He calls Agatha for a meeting the following morning, and announces the appointment in the evening -- Knight-Captain Agatha is well received by her fellows, and he gives half the officers leave to celebrate her promotion because morale is _important_. Something Meredith never understood.

And the other thing comes to a head within the sevenday, when a squad of Mage Hunters arrive in the Gallows, one sorry apostate hunched in their midst, and Cullen takes one look at the man and immediately summons Carver to deal with it.

The squad leader, a rough-faced Rivaini woman with a tattoo on her cheek, gives Carver a horrified look. "Hunter- _Captain?_ " 

Carver has every right to look proud of himself but he doesn't, just chews the lot of them out for sloppy armour and general arrogance and the appalling state of the mage in their care, and Cullen finally walks away though Carver sounds by no means done with them. Later, a request lands on Cullen's desk for these mage hunters to be absorbed into the Gallows, accompanied by a request that several knights also be transferred into his care, Abigail and Jessamin amongst them. And Ser Paxley, no surprises there. Carver has always been and always will be sentimental to a fault.

Still, it is good. Despite the first kiss of early snow reported on the lower slopes of Sundermount, the harbinger of a bad winter, Cullen cannot help but feel _good_ about the Gallows' prospects, for the first time in a long time.

He lingers in his office, though Agatha has taken nearly all his paperwork from him, until Isaak comes to inform him that Ser Carver and Serrah Fenris have refused to begin their dinner until he joins them.

He goes up the stairs, opens the door, finds them both before the fire. Fenris is in a chair, reading aloud from some terrible piece of popular fiction, while Carver lies on the floor, howling with laughter at something Cullen doesn't fully understand.

They both look up. _Maker's mercy._

"Ser!" Carver calls out, nearly a shout. "You have to _hear_ this!"

Fenris taps the cheap fold of paper on Carver's shoulder. "Dinner first. Don't starve him."

How good it is. Cullen closes the door, and goes to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it looks like the end, but I still have thoughts about this. Plus, I think I owe someone threesome sex that's somewhat more ... comprehensive. Sequels maybe to follow.


End file.
